The Endilinti
by Aramat57
Summary: McCoy-centric angst, romance, and adventure, pretty much in that order. The OFC has been in my writing since the early 80s. This is my first time publishing anywhere. Disclaimer: I don't own them, but enjoy playing in their world. Rating is for language and later chapters, a T-plus really. Thank you for reading, reviews are welcome.
1. Chapter 1

1

"...Code called at eighteen-ten. Cause of death: Exsanguination due to multiple lacerations of the descending thoracic aorta. Attach surgical log. End report."

Leonard McCoy switched off the recording, muttered an expletive under his breath, and wearily rubbed his eyes. Hours earlier, the call came from the planet's surface on what was a routine mission. Freak accident. Casualties. Three teams met the landing party at the transporter room, gurneys ready. Two injuries were not life threatening, but the third person had already lost so much blood that the massive chest wound was no longer pumping his life from his body. The unrestrained panic of the landing party was quickly replaced by the ordered triage and tightly controlled effort of the medical team in their frantic race to replace blood volume and stop the massive Class Four bleed. But Ensign Rinehart was dead. McCoy cursed again.

He heard movement in the treatment room, followed by Nurse Chapel quietly entering his office. She was carrying a cup of coffee which she set before him on his desk. Her eyes were bleak, too, mirrors, he thought, of his own. He leaned back and gestured for her to sit, toying with the coffee cup. She pulled up the straight chair and sat on the edge, carefully weighing how much to say, knowing firsthand how difficult and fragile McCoy could be after losing a patient.

"Marian Littlefield has been discharged. Dr. M'Benga says Lieutenant Oates will need a day under the stimulator." She paused. "It could have been worse."

McCoy's eyes flashed. "I guess that depends on your point of view. It couldn't be worse for that dead boy."

"Please don't beat yourself. His injuries were too severe. No one could have saved him."

"No, Christine, it's not that." He rested his forehead on his fists for a moment. "Space is a dangerous place. We all knew that before we signed on. Young people- old people, too - die out here. But we're here because we hope to make a difference. We think our lives matter. But this young man's death was so damned senseless. He didn't die making the Galaxy safe for the Federation. He didn't die for some greater good. He didn't die a hero saving the ship. A stupid containment field accident on a stupid backwater planetoid and he's gone. Not that it really matters. Dead is dead."

McCoy's voice turned hard and bitter. "And now some nicely starched officer from Starfleet HQ is gonna go tell his parents that their boy's never coming home. Instead of their son, they'll get a little package with the Fleet's most sincere condolences and a tape from his commanding officer." His voice cracked a little. "He was twenty, for God's sake. And he's in stasis in my morgue."

"I know," Chapel said simply. "I'm sorry."

McCoy looked up, features softening. "Yes, of course," he said quietly. "Of course you know. I unloaded on you. Forgive me for being such a jackass."

She stood. "I understand." She laid her hand briefly on his shoulder. "Drink your coffee, Leonard, and try to get some rest."

He stared at her morosely. "I don't think this is a coffee kind of night."

Chapel grimaced and patted his arm. "If you need anything, please tell me."

McCoy nodded as she left the room, understanding that they both knew her offer, though sincere, was futile. What he needed, no one could provide.


	2. Chapter 2

Late in what was the Enterprise's 'evening' he often walked his ship's mostly empty corridors. It was his down time, his solitary time. Although he belonged to them every minute of every day, if he saw other crew members they passed without engagement, instinctively respecting his need for distance. Alone he had the time to ruminate. Alone he could reflect and consider and mull events within his own head without input from anyone or anything but the Enterprise herself. The ship might be his love, but she was demanding, exacting a high price from him in turn. Sometimes the weight bore down. On that night, the burden was heavy, and he found no solace in being alone.

James Kirk found his steps had actually taken him to McCoy's quarters. He stood with his hand on the chime for a span, not quite sure if he would ring or not. Finally he knocked lightly, but got no response. The Captain paused a moment, then turned and headed for the nearby Sickbay.

The CMO was indeed at his office desk, his PADD and an almost empty bourbon bottle in front of him. McCoy looked up wearily as Kirk rounded the screen.

"Jim." McCoy waved him in. Kirk approached, studying the doctor's face for signs of inebriation, but all he could see was exhaustion and sorrow. McCoy noted his inquiring glance and nodded toward the bottle. "I've only had one shot. Uncle Jim Beam was already empty." He pushed the bottle across the desk. "Do you want the dregs, Captain?"

Kirk sat heavily and picked up the bottle, turning it in his hands and then replacing it on the desk. "I don't think it will help, Bones."

"You're right. It doesn't." McCoy turned it up and drained the last swallow, thumping the empty bottle down on the desk. "I have the medical reports ready."

"Yes, I saw them earlier. I already have the transmission packet ready to send to Starfleet and the family." Kirk's fingers drummed on the desk.

McCoy observed Kirk's tightly wound movement and waited for him to speak. It was their usual pattern; a little self examination, followed by acceptance of loss, absolution, and the beginning of recovery. For Kirk that process was customarily pretty quick. He was resilient by nature, and also convinced that he had made and would continue to make the right decisions. It was the confidence of command, and the Captain wore it as well as any officer in Starfleet.

"The field transmitter has been repaired at least. Scotty fabricated a new part and beamed down to install it himself. They're almost done down there, so we'll be warping out in a couple of hours." More finger tapping. "So Littlefield and Oates are going to be fine?"

"Yeah. Oates will need some followup treatment on outpatient basis for a couple of days. Both are being referred to PTS counseling." McCoy shrugged. "You know the routine."

"Ensign Rinehart was standing directly in the path of the explosion when the seal gave way," Kirk said. "He never had a chance. He had a lot of potential, placed in the top ten percent in his class." Kirk sighed. "He wanted to serve in engineering. I'm glad he had that opportunity, if only for a little while."

McCoy couldn't help the tightening in his expression, but managed to bite back his immediate thought about the opportunities that would never happen for the young man now. "I guess so," he managed to say.

Kirk peered closely at his friend and chief surgeon. "Bones, are _you_ going to be OK?"

"Jim..." He swallowed, considering what he might say that wouldn't seem accusatory, even though he didn't intend to be. He knew neither the accident nor the death had been the Captain's fault at all, but railing against the uncertainties and callousness of fate might seem to point a finger of blame at Kirk. That he would not do, as a physician or a friend.

"Yes," he lied. "I reckon I'm OK. This has been a hard day, and you're here at the end of it to see an old man who is past the point of being tired and is no longer thinking straight. I should be asking how you are, Jim."

"You're not old. And you'll be fine. The ship depends on you. I depend on you. You're upset now. So am I. But we'll work through it."

"Age is a state of mind more than a number. I feel old." He rubbed his eyes. "Very old. And tired. But I suppose you're right."

Kirk rose to his feet, "Maybe something is coming along that will give you a chance to rest and recharge. We all could use a break. I'm feeling pretty old myself"

McCoy raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"I don't have the orders yet. Soon, I think, maybe tomorrow. Hang in there. It will get better."

"For some of us, maybe," McCoy said. "We lucky ones have the luxury of time and the hope of tomorrow. 'Boast not thyself of tomorrow, for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth.' "

Kirk was not sure how to respond to McCoy's mawkishness. "What was that? Poetry?"

"Yes. King James Version of the Bible. You know my Great-Grandpa was a Baptist preacher." McCoy took a deep breath and exhaled. "Grandpa was disappointed in the state of my salvation, though. We couldn't agree on the nature or the necessity of a God. But that verse is absolutely true. We don't know what tomorrow will bring. Happiness or sorrow. Maybe love. Maybe death."

Kirk was dumbfounded. A Bible quoting McCoy was outside his paradigm. "Come on, Bones. Let me drop you off at your quarters. You need to call it a night."

He was a little surprised when McCoy stood to accompany him. "You're right, I do need to call it a night. And so do you." He shoved the empty bottle in the recycler and they walked together to his cabin, both silent in their own thoughts. McCoy turned to Kirk as the door slid open to his quarters. "Good night, Jim. Go to bed yourself. Doctor's orders."

Kirk nodded. "Physician, heal thyself."

McCoy smiled wanly. "I think that's in Luke if you want to look it up. But I promise I'll stay put tonight." He grasped the younger man's arm in a gesture of support and friendship then stepped through the door which closed quietly behind him. The lights came on and he quickly ordered them to thirty percent. He kicked off his boots, leaving them where they fell, shedding his clothes on the way to the bathroom. He had already showered once directly after surgery, but the sharp smell of blood still seemed embedded in his nostrils, so he let the water rush over his body for a long time. He dried and pulled on pajama pants and a regulation black T-shirt. He stopped at his liquor cabinet and removed a bottle, holding it a long moment before returning it to the shelf unopened.

Instead he stretched out on his bunk, hands clasped behind his head, thinking about yesterdays and tomorrows until fatigue finally overtook him and he slept.


	3. Chapter 3

Kirk frowned at the hyperlink viewscreen where Admiral Fitzgerald 's likeness had been just moments before. He unsealed the command packet and spent a few minutes going over the details of the Enterprise's next assignment. It was not the shore leave time he had hoped for. Kirk punched the intercom to the bridge. "Mr. Sulu," he barked. "Set course for Vulcan, warp three. Commander Spock, please report to the briefing room."

In a few minutes Spock strode into the room, locking hands behind his back and standing at rest. "Yes, Captain?"

"Have a seat, Spock" Kirk looked at the offending command module and then at his first officer. "I just got our orders." Spock wore his inscrutable expression. Kirk's frown got a little deeper.

"We are picking up a science team from Vulcan and taking them to Nu Aminta II."

"Indeed. Nu Aminta II is an abandoned planet in the Nu Pheonicis system. There has been an archeological team stationed there for one point seven years." Spock steepled his fingers in a characteristic gesture. "The ruins there are a lost galactic library of sorts, with artifacts and recovered writings that may offer insight on many worlds' ancient space travelers. In essence, a Memory Alpha of lost civilizations. It has been compared to the Rosetta Stone, an ancient Earth granodiorite stele, which provided the key to translating Egyptian hieroglyphics."

"Yes. We also appear to be leaving something something behind on Vulcan," Kirk said. "Mainly our Chief Science Officer."

"Yes, Captain. I shall remain on Vulcan for a brief time, prior to my departure accompanying a Vulcan Diplomatic entourage."

"Starfleet Command didn't bother to inform me that I was losing my CSO until today. I wonder why?"

Spock tilted his head slightly. "I will not be lost, Captain. I should be back on Vulcan and ready to return to the ship immediately following your mission to Aminta II."

"Spock, I don't like Starfleet jerking my officers around without so much as a by your leave. I don't like my second in command going off into possible danger without me. And I don't like being kept in the dark."

"Captain, I regret that Starfleet felt it necessary to be reticent concerning the mission details. I am not at liberty to speak of it at this time, even to you. But I think it would not be amiss if I indicate that there should be few elements of peril to life or limb. I anticipate returning completely intact to the Enterprise."

"Well, that's better than nothing," Kirk said, only slightly mollified. "But please don't say that to Bones. He's...disconcerted."

"I have observed that Doctor McCoy frequently exhibits indications of a depressive mental state following the loss of a crew member. Is his current behavior beyond the norm?"

"He quoted Bible verses at me yesterday."

Spock's eyebrow rose. "Indeed? That does not sound like the good doctor."

"No, I didn't think so either. He _says_ he's fine, but..." Kirk spread his hands. "I'm not so sure. I think he needs a break." He smiled ruefully. "In fact, I all but promised him one. But it looks like we will split our free time between Aminta II and Vulcan."

"Neither seem to typify the type of venue he prefers for the conduction of recreational activity."

"That is an understatement, Spock." Kirk sighed and stood, signaling the end of the meeting. "We will arrive at Vulcan in about twenty-four hours."

"Twenty-three point eight eight," Spock said absently. "I shall be prepared to beam down immediately upon arrival, Captain."

"Of course," Kirk said. Then he quickly added, "Spock, be careful."

Spock nodded at his commanding officer. "I will," he said. He bowed almost imperceptibly and returned to the bridge, leaving Kirk alone with his misgivings.


	4. Chapter 4

McCoy finished the last chart and closed his medical log entry. It had been a routine and ordinary day, the kind of shift that had allowed him to navigate primarily on a kind of auto pilot. He didn't like the feeling of disconnect; detachment was not how he conducted his life as a doctor or a person. But it had served well enough, especially when he felt the concerned glances coming from his chief nurse when she thought he wasn't looking.

He had realized early in their association that Chapel was protective of the Sickbay in general and him in particular. She was a fine nurse, proficient, knowledgeable, smart, insightful, and she made the patient load flow through Sickbay like a smooth river. She delegated his time and resources, and made his job easier. Most of the time her mothering instinct was a tolerable offshoot of this protectiveness. Occasionally McCoy felt suffocated by the attention. Fortunately Chapel usually sensed when he needed to be left alone, and gave him room. So although he could feel her watchful eye, she had refrained from any personal discussion and had been the very model of professionalism. He was relieved. Chapel was hard to bluff.

"Doctor McCoy, may I enter?"

McCoy jumped just a bit, startled. "Dammit, Spock. Make some noise when you sneak up on me."

Spock inclined his head. "That is a nonsensical statement, Doctor. If my intention was to approach stealthily, then it would be illogical to broadcast my arrival with unnecessary noise. However, I was not sneaking. You were preoccupied, and thus inattentive."

McCoy blinked. "Never mind. Come in. What brings you here? I assume this is not a social visit."

"It is not wise to make assumptions, Doctor McCoy. One could say that this is indeed a social visit." Spock lowered his tall frame into a chair, watching McCoy digest his statement and waiting expectantly for the doctor's rejoinder.

McCoy leaned forward, focusing on the Vulcan, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. Their eyes met for a moment, then McCoy suddenly seemed satisfied. He leaned back with a soft snort. "All right, Spock. Let's hear what's on your mind. But before you start, I have a question for you. Why in blazes are we headed for Vulcan?"

"The Enterprise received orders from Starfleet Command," Spock answered mildly.

"I know that, ya pointy eared computer," McCoy said. "But why to Vulcan? What will we do there?"

"The Enterprise will pick up a small contingent of scientists on Vulcan, then proceed to Nu Aminta II, with supplies and equipment for the research outpost there."

"I don't think I've heard of Aminta," McCoy said.

"Hardly surprising," Spock said. "Nu Aminta II is an abandoned space port planet discovered by a Federation and Andorian joint scientific expedition approximately one point eight Earth years ago. It is remarkable for its large number of intact relics dating back more than five thousand years. These are of great interest to historical linguists in particular, as many contain fragmented links to languages that are no longer in existence. It is also..."

McCoy held up his hand. "A cosmic Rosetta Stone in the galactic Library at Alexandria. I get it." He chuckled at Spock's raised eyebrow of surprise. "So I guess you're excited. You'll be in scientific communion with a bunch of Vulcans just like you. Y'all can use big words without stopping to explain what you're sayin'."

"Really, Doctor," Spock admonished. "Sardonicism is not becoming on you. But you extrapolate from a mistaken premise. I will not be traveling with the Enterprise to Aminta II."

"No?" McCoy was quickly serious. "Where will you be, Mister Spock?"

Spock regarded him gravely. "I shall be on a diplomatic mission with members of the Vulcan Council. I cannot speak openly at this time."

"Diplomat? You?" McCoy studied Spock's poker face for a moment, but did not press further. "So do you want me to water your plants while you're gone or what?"

"That will not be necessary. Kylin'the and cacti can go without water for extended periods."

McCoy rolled his eyes.

"Actually, Doctor, I do have something to discuss with you."

McCoy heard the slight hesitation in Spock's voice. "Go ahead," he prompted. "Spit it out."

"One associate who will board when we reach Vulcan is not a scientist, per se. But she possesses a unique skill that may help decipher some of the tomes found on Aminta and has agreed to aid in the translation. She is a rather well known musician."

"Well, that sounds lovely," said McCoy. "But I don't understand how I can help. I'm a doctor, not a linguist." He looked quizzically at the Vulcan, wondering what Spock wasn't saying.

"I realize that," Spock said. "In addition, she is a member of my family. Her name is T'Phol."

McCoy stared at Spock in confusion, unsure where the conversation was going. He decided to take a direct approach. "Well, it's too bad you won't be here to visit with her. Now why don't you tell me where this is headed and how I can help."

"It is neither your scientific nor medical skill that might benefit T'Phol. She is - questing for her identity. I believe she will find your insight into the human condition to be engaging, perhaps illuminating, and, at the very least thought provoking." Spock paused. "T'Phol is half Vulcan. Her mother is Human. "

"Just like another Vulcan I know? Oh, Hell...Spock..." He broke off, a little nonplussed. "I've been trying for years to engage and provoke you. Look how great that's working out. How many of you exist, anyway? "

Spock's dark eyes glinted with amusement, visible for those few who knew how to see. "In my family, just myself and T'Phol. Historically, since First Contact, there have been fifty-four successful births of Vulcan/Human hybrids. I think you will find her to be quite different from me in many fundamental ways. You and I have served together four years, seven months, and twenty-three days."

"Well, that's a relief. How many hours?"

"Seventeen hours, three minutes, fourteen seconds."

"Huh." McCoy leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment. He opened them to find Spock gaze focused on him keenly. "What? It's enough to have Nurse Chapel hovering and watching me outta the corner of her eye all day. I promise I'm not gonna crack just this second."

Spock raised a brow. "That is fortunate."

McCoy considered a retort, but let it pass unsaid. The physician in him was certainly intrigued at the prospect of meeting another Vulcan/Human hybrid. But approaching with an agenda seemed underhanded and manipulative, bordering on unethical. He wished that Spock had said nothing to him at all.

Spock seemed to have picked up on his thought. "Doctor McCoy, I am not suggesting that you should schedule a psycho-analysis session, nor invade her privacy with prying or goading. T'Phol is both perceptive and discerning, as well as selective of her companions. You are astute, compassionate, and dare I add, occasionally even winsome, or so it has been reported."

McCoy's bark of laughter was sharp and sudden. "Winsome? You're slipping."

"I did indicate it has been reported. I have no first hand knowledge of the phenomenon." Spock's face was thoughtful as he continued. "The life of a prodigy and performer is often singular by necessity or desire. To be driven by such a Muse is a hard burden, particularly as a child on display. To borrow an Earth expression, I simply think the two of you might 'hit it off'. And I believe you both would benefit from making the acquaintance." Spock left unspoken his thought that McCoy also projected an air of loneliness, more pronounced of late than usual.

McCoy sat up straight, his blue eyes meeting Spock's with an intensity that the Vulcan found a little unsettling. Spock could sense some anger or annoyance there, though he did not understand the cause. Finally the doctor relented with a slight shrug. "Fine. I'll be sure to meet your cousin while she's on board. But on my terms."

Spock nodded and rose. "I would expect nothing less from you, Doctor McCoy. Thank you. Now if you will excuse me, I must prepare for beam down when we reach planet orbit. Good evening."

"You be careful, Spock. And you're welcome. I guess." The latter he muttered under his breath at Spock's departing back.

McCoy stared after Spock for several long minutes, deep in thought.


	5. Chapter 5

The turbolift door slid open and McCoy stepped onto the bridge, carrying his morning coffee. Kirk swung his command chair around and greeted him with little more than a grunt, then focused his attention back to the tablet in his hand. McCoy surveyed the early morning bridge crew. Chekov was at the science station, looking rather bored. Sulu was covering both navigation and helm, neither of which was much of a chore when in stable orbit around a friendly planet. Uhura was at her usual communications console. She alone of the bridge crew seemed cheerful, humming a tune as she monitored frequencies. McCoy sauntered in her direction.

"Good morning, Uhura," he said. "At least _someone's_ in a good mood."

Uhura looked up and removed the Irving device from her ear. "Why, good morning, Doctor. Yes, it's a beautiful day, an exciting day."

Chekov looked over gloomily. "Vat is so beautiful about it?"

Uhura pointed at the viewscreen where red and gold Vulcan floated serenely underneath them. "Look at that, Gentlemen, and tell me it's not beautiful!"

Sulu snorted. "Sure, it's pretty enough, I guess. But a heavy gravity hot desert planet is not my idea of a great shore leave location."

"Den perhaps you will like Nu Aminta II," Chekov said. "Dead and frostbitten and lots of old dusty things."

"Boil or freeze," grumbled Sulu. "I've already frozen, and I don't think I'll try boiling."

He considered for a moment, then added, "But there are some plants on Vulcan I'd like to see..." He turned back to the screen with a heavy sigh.

McCoy shook his head, turning back to Uhura. "Beautiful we understand. But tell me why today is exciting for you, my dear."

"Well, two reasons, really. As a master linguist, I am anxious to see some things from Aminta II, perhaps get a shot at helping with the translation. And I am also looking very much forward to meeting one of our guests a little later."

"Which guest is that?" asked Kirk, looking up from his PADD, the first indication that he had been paying attention to the banter flying back and forth.

"Polthea of Altaire, of course." She looked incredulously at the blank stares she was receiving from everyone. "Don't tell me none of you have heard of her."

Kirk's brow furrowed. "I don't remember that name from the passenger roster, Uhura."

"Polthea is a stage name. She is on the guest list as T'Phol Grayson." More blank stares, except, she noted, from McCoy, who suddenly found the deck to be interesting.

"So," said Chekov, "Do you want to let us all in on the secret of the amazing whoever she is?"

Uhura nodded. "I'll do better than that, I'll show you." She glanced at Kirk. "Permission, Captain?" Kirk nodded consent. Her fingers played across her board, shortly followed by music over the bridge speakers, a piano solo with a soaring melody. For several minutes the song filled the bridge while they listened without speaking.

The piece finished. Finally Sulu spoke. "Now _that_ was beautiful!"

"Polthea was a teenager when she recorded that one," Uhura said. "It is her original work, probably her most famous piece. She is coming on board to help the linguists at Aminta translate some of the tonal pieces they have recovered. Evidently she sees music, not in just notes or as a score, but as patterns of sound waves and vibrations. It is all very interesting, and I look forward to discussing it with her."

Kirk rubbed his chin. "Maybe we can ask her to give a little show for the crew. That would be a welcome diversion, assuming she is willing. Do you want to be the concert planning committee, Uhura?"

"I suppose I could approach her about it," Uhura said.

"I'll help," McCoy said unexpectedly. "What time are they coming aboard?"

"Eleven hundred hours. ship time," Uhura replied.

Kirk looked at McCoy speculatively, a little surprised that he had volunteered for the task. His CMO could be a hard study sometimes. However, it was fitting that a senior officer greet the scientists upon arrival, and McCoy certainly qualified. "Bones, why don't you and Uhura meet our guests in the transporter room," he said. "You can escort them to their quarters and get them settled in. I'll assign a yeoman to the guest wing."

"Will do, Captain," McCoy said. He moved toward the lift. "I'll meet you at the transporter room later," he nodded to Uhura. She waved her fingers at him as the doors whooshed closed. "Deck five," he ordered, and a couple of minutes later entered sickbay. Chapel was at her desk working on her PADD. She looked up and greeted him with alacrity, her expression carefully and inquiringly cheerful. He dropped his now empty coffee cup into the recycle unit and got a glass of water, pausing at her desk.

"Good morning, Chris." He saw her shoulders relax, almost imperceptibly.

"Good morning, Doctor McCoy," she replied. "You're up early. Your shift doesn't begin for another hour." Chapel's scrutiny revealed the dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced than usual, but at least he seemed communicative and he was drinking water. She knew he never drank alcohol while on duty, but she wondered how much he had consumed lately and if he was both completely detoxed and adequately hydrated. There was no way to tell without a scan, a notion she quickly dismissed.

McCoy sighed, seeing the diagnostic study running through Chapel's mind with him as the subject. He decided to ignore it and took a seat on the edge of her desk..

"Tell me, have you ever heard of Polthea of Altaire?"

If she was surprised by his off the wall question, she hid it well. "The child musician? Yes." She waited on him to continue.

"She's coming on board today. Uhura is a fan." He shrugged. "I have to admit, I had never heard of her. "

Chapel pursed her lips. "Well, she wouldn't be a child now, of course. But she was pretty famous years ago. You would have been busy in medical school and the residency grind when she was popular. The entertainment channels still play her music, though. Classical performances don't go out of style." She paused and grinned. "Not like that stuff you listen to sometimes."

"You wound me to my core, Miss Chapel. The Beatles and Van Morrison are not 'stuff', they're classic rock." He motioned at her tablet. "I've volunteered to see our guests on board later. What's on the agenda for today?"

Chapel glanced at the schedule. "You are excising that lipoma from Tera Litchcomb's shoulder this morning. Two physicals this afternoon. You were also planning to finish the quarterly control audit today, the report is due at the end of the week."

"Joy." He slid off her desk and headed for his office, intending to finish the paperwork. Instead he found himself doing a computer search and listening to the results. He was still engrossed when his first patient arrived and he reluctantly put it aside.

* * *

Uhura was waiting outside the transporter room, eyes still sparkling, but her overt excitement level constrained. McCoy put an arm around her shoulders and she hugged him back affectionately.

"I have been listening to your child prodigy,"he told her. "It's amazing what some people can do at such a young age."

"Yes, it is. But imagine the amount of dedication it takes to make the raw talent blossom," Uhura replied.

"Dedication and or compulsion, both internal and external. There are a lot of factors at work in an exceptional brain. And children are subject to the whim and rule of adults. The life of a prodigy can be pretty difficult under the best of circumstances."

Uhura squeezed his arm. "You are making me a little sad. I guess I hadn't thought of anything but the talent."

"Just call on me whenever you need a dose of gloom and doom." McCoy said, giving another quick hug before releasing her. "Now, come on, let's go get our guests."

Chief Kyle greeted them as they entered the transporter room, already busy at the console. Materializing on the transporter pad was a polished wooden box, about a meter and a half long, and several other assorted containers. Kyle and another crewman climbed the platform and sat the items to the side. The box was obviously rather heavy for its size.

"Luggage?" McCoy asked.

"Bloody scientific equipment," Kyle said. "For whatever reason, they didn't want these things beamed at the cargo station. We're ready to bring the people aboard now."

The transporter hummed and three beings sparkled into materialization, two Andorians, both appeared to be one of the male Andorian genders, and a Vulcan woman. McCoy stepped forward to greet them but brought himself up short before saying anything. The Andorians were embroiled in a spirited discussion in their native language. Their voices were not especially loud, but there was a lot of hissing and antenna waving and gesturing, and it was obvious the discussion was being continued from planetside. Uhura looked at McCoy, her eyes widening. He shrugged slightly and stepped closer, clearing his throat loudly.

"Excuse me, Gentlebeings." The Andorians abruptly fell silent as if they had just noticed they were now aboard a vessel with an audience. "Welcome to the Enterprise." McCoy nodded slightly. "I am Chief Medical Officer Doctor Leonard McCoy, and this is Lieutenant Nyota Uhura. We are here to show you to your rooms and help you get settled in."

He motioned for them to step down from the pad. The taller Andorian inclined his head. "I am Kelan, and this is my associate Vartheb. We accept your hospitality. Have our things arrived safely?"

"Yes, indeed," McCoy said, gesturing to the neat pile of containers.

"You will see that they are delivered to my quarters,"Kelan ordered. "With extreme care," he added in Kyle's direction. "These are important scientific instruments."

"Of course," McCoy said flatly. "Our people will be very careful." He turned to the Vulcan woman. "Welcome aboard, Ma'am."

She spread her fingers in the Vulcan salute. "Thank you, Doctor McCoy, Lieutenant Uhura. I am T'Phol, and your service honors me." She stepped from the platform, with a glance at Kelan and Vartheb. She was tall and slender, like every Vulcan McCoy had ever seen and moved with careless grace. Her dark hair was loosely gathered in a pony tail and she had a violin case slung over her shoulder.

"If you will follow us, we will show you to your quarters," Uhura moved toward the door, entourage in tow. McCoy paused by Kyle's station. "Mr. Kyle, would you be so kind as to make sure these things get to Kelan's cabin? Quicker is better, I think."

"Right away, Sir," Kyle answered, his British accent more clipped than usual.

T'Phol stepped forward. "I have an item here, too, but I can take it with me." She reached for the wooden box.

"Here," McCoy protested,"Let me carry that for you." He picked it up by the handle and grunted in surprise. The thing was heavier than he expected.

She regarded him with apparent amusement. "Perhaps it would be better for me to carry this. I regularly do so."

McCoy relented, feeling his cheeks redden. "Well, so much for chivalry," he mumbled. He stepped back, and T'Phol lifted it with relative ease. "This way, then," he said. T'Phol fell into step beside him. Ahead of them, the Andorians were deep into their discussion or argument as they followed Uhura.

"It seems the Kelan and Vartheb have a lot to talk about already," McCoy said.

"Indeed," T'Phol said, her inflection very reminiscent of Spock. She lowered her voice. "If my evaluation is correct, they do not seem to be in accord. But I do not speak Andorian."

"Nor do I. I guess I shoulda brought along a universal translator. But I do like Andorian cabbage soup," McCoy said, then felt immediately foolish for the asinine quip.

T'Phol made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, prompting a sidelong glance from McCoy. "Too spicy," she said, "and too yellow. Over the years, I have learned to eat things from many different worlds and cultures. A lot of Andorian fare is both garish and piquant, but I do like Andorian tuber."

They caught up with Uhura, who had stopped in front of the first guest quarters, typing in the access code. "If you'll step inside, I'll show you how things work. It's the same for all the rooms." They moved forward and watched while she demonstrated the food slots, intercom, computer terminal, and door passkey. "We have assigned Yeoman Cassady to assist you during your stay. Please let him know if you need anything. His number is on your intercom pinpad. You are free to move between your quarters and the common areas on this deck, including the mess hall, lounge, and arboretum. We would also be glad to give you a tour of the Enterprise during your stay. Just let Mr. Cassady know so we can arrange for a guide."

"You will also find Andorian dishes programmed into the food synthesiser," McCoy added. "Hopefully you will find things satisfactory."

Kelan inclined his head. "It is adequate," he said in Standard. "You may be excused while I await our supplies." Uhura's trim eyebrow rose and her eyes flashed a bit, but she smiled.

"Of course, Sir," she said, with dangerous sweetness. "Good day." Vartheb said nothing, but his antennae twitched. McCoy wondered if it was from nervousness or agitation or some other reason. They left Kelan, deposited Vartheb next door, and went a little further down the corridor to T'Phol's quarters. Uhura opened the door for her. "This is your room, Polthea."

T'Phol stepped inside, setting her box on the floor before turning to Uhura. "I am no longer known as Polthea. That was a corruption of my real name. I have been T'Phol Grayson since I was fifteen. "

"I am so excited to have a chance to meet and work with you, I forgot. I suppose I sound like a teenager with a crush," Uhura apologized, "but I have enjoyed your music for a long time."

"No harm," T'Phol answered. "Will you be working on the Nu Aminta project, then?" She carefully laid the violin case on the bed and glanced around the spare room.

"I hope to," Uhura replied. "I am a master linguist, my specialty is computational linguistics. Sometimes I use musical concepts in my algorithms, but I'd like to learn more."

"Have you seen Al'Kipin's thesis on the theoretical modeling of lingual corpora using Pakthalian Web frequencies?" T'Phol's eyes were alight with inquiry.

Uhura nodded quickly. "Yes, interesting work, but he is using them in the study of current Salenoid offshoot dialects. Would they be as useful when applied to endangered or archaic languages..."

"OK, OK," McCoy broke in, raising his hands in mock surrender. "You linguists are obviously speaking Greek to me. I'll run on back to Sickbay now." He nodded to T'Phol. "A pleasure, Miss Grayson. I am sure I'll see you again."

T'Phol tilted her head, eyes slightly hooded with veiled amusement. McCoy sensed her humor on display yet again. He found he liked it.

"Yes, I suspect you shall. Thank you." She and Uhura resumed their conversation which followed him down the corridor until the door slid closed.


	6. Chapter 6

Captain Kirk had a headache. And it was getting worse as he listened to Yeoman Cassady, who sounded as if he might have a headache himself.

"The synthesizer has been re-programmed, and the thermostat has been set for a wider range of temperatures. And the light has been adjusted for the Andor color spectrum and intensity. The new complaint is the 'screeching' coming from Miss Grayson's room. Captain, she is playing her violin, but I can barely hear it standing next to the door. I guess their hearing or those antennae are extremely sensitive. I told Kelan that I would pass his concern along to you." Cassady shifted his weight ever so slightly from foot to foot as he made his report, obviously somewhat perturbed.

"We certainly can't ask a musician not to practice. Someone will have to move." Kirk rubbed his temple. "What is available? I guess it would be easier to relocate Miss Grayson. But if they can hear her in that guest room, they'll probably be able to hear her from any of the others."

Cassady tapped the tablet in his hand. There is an empty junior officer's quarters further down in section B next to the storeroom."

"All right. See to it. Let me know if you need me to step in for reinforcement."

"Aye, Sir," Cassady said with a sigh, straightening his shoulders and tucking his PADD under his arm. "I'll see what I can do." Kirk watched him enter the turbolift with weary resignation. "Sulu, what is our ETA to the Nu Pheonicis system?"

Sulu turned around in his seat to face him. "A little under six days at present speed, Captain."

"I guess Scotty would have an aneurysm if I requested warp fourteen." Kirk stood and stretched. "Never mind, steady as she goes. Mr. Sulu, you have the con. I'll be in Sickbay getting an aspirin."

"Aye, Sir." Sulu waited on him to enter the lift before adding, "I hope Doc has a lot of aspirin. Sounds like we may need them." Behind him, Chekov sputtered with laughter. Uhura turned from her console, shaking her head.

"This might be a long week for poor Cass," she said. "Kelan was demanding from the moment he stepped off the transporter pad. His buddy didn't have much to say to us, but they were having a pretty spirited discussion between themselves about translating some specific piece. I didn't catch it all. I would hate to be stuck with either one working on a project."

"What about your piano friend?" asked Sulu.

"Ahh. Working with T'Phol will be another story. I think our differing approaches and aptitudes will mesh well together. I can write the algorithm and she can envision the pattern and we can hopefully interpret the results. She's not a linguist, though. Her talent lies almost entirely in tonal applications."

Chekov snorted. "That does not sound like a fun way to spend shore leave."

"Considering the location, I think it sounds perfect. I don't think there will be wide-spread leave granted at Aminta anyway because of the working archeological sites and the harsh climate. Just light duty rotations aboard ship."

"Something is better than nothing," Sulu said.

"You gentlemen," said Uhura, "are totally wet blankets."

"We'll see who is wet after a few days on Aminta," said Chekov.

* * *

McCoy was finishing his quarterly report when Kirk strode into Sickbay. He signed the log and pushed it aside. The Captain grabbed a chair and sat astraddle, massaging his temples.

"Let me guess," McCoy said. "Headache?"

"Good guess."

McCoy rose and crossed the floor to the outer outer portion of his office opening a small pharmacy cabinet. "How bad?"

Kirk glanced at the antique pain assessment chart McCoy had displayed on the wall next to the door. "Face number six," he said. "Hurts even more."

He heard McCoy chuckle as the doctor shook a capsule from a bottle and filled a glass of water. He returned, dumping the pill into Kirk's outstretched hand, and putting the glass on the desk. Kirk washed the pill down, willing it to work immediately.

"I guess I don't have to ask how it's going," McCoy said, taking a seat at his desk.

"The Andorians are having some problems getting settled." Kirk rested his chin on his fist, looking rather boyish. "Cassady has been busy all afternoon. Hopefully that situation is almost resolved, otherwise it's going to be a long trip to Aminta."

McCoy harrumphed in agreement. "They were in fine mettle when they arrived. Evidently translating old documents is more exciting than I ever imagined."

"This whole ferry job is just busy work for us while we wait on Spock to finish whatever top secret thing he's doing with the Vulcan Council." Kirk frowned.

"What do you reckon that's all about?" McCoy asked. "Spock was tight lipped about it."

Kirk shrugged. "I honestly have no idea. But I suspect he was aboard the Vulcan Ambassador's ship Eridani 1 when it left orbit."

McCoy's eyebrows climbed. "Ambassador as in Sarek?"

Kirk shrugged again. "I'm just guessing, Bones. The Eridani 1 was in orbit when we arrived at Vulcan and left shortly after. Spock said he was going on a diplomatic mission. Whether that involves Sarek I can't say, but his father _is_ a highly ranking ambassador."

McCoy pursed his lips in thought. "Maybe this is a journey of discovery in more ways than one."

"What, Bones?"

"Ah, nothing. Just thinking out loud." McCoy stretched. "I think I'll visit the guest wing and see how things are coming along. Care to join me?"

"In fact, I will. I want to assess the situation with Kelan myself." Kirk's brow furrowed. "All this complaining makes me uneasy."

The guest corridor was quiet when they arrived. Yeoman Cassady was at a desk in the small seating area adjacent to the guest rooms working with a stylus on his PADD. He still had a harried air about him, but it appeared at that moment things were calm. He stood at their approach.

"At ease, Yeoman," Kirk waved off the formality. "How are things with our guests?"

"Quiet for the moment, Sir. I just finished making sure cabin four-B is ready. I was getting ready to ask Miss Grayson if she would be agreeable with the move."

"Good," Kirk said. "I think I'll introduce myself to everyone." He stepped to Kelan's door and rang the chime.

"Who is it?" The Andorian's voice sounded sharp over the com.

"This is the Captain of the Enterprise," Kirk barked back.

The door opened and Kelan stepped through.

"My apologies, Captain. I was busy at my studies and did not wish to be disturbed. I am Kelan of Andor." He bowed stiffly from the waist.

"And I am Captain James T. Kirk. Welcome aboard. I understand there have been a few kinks to work out. I trust these issues have been dealt with satisfactorily."

"For the most part. There is still the matter of that disturbance from the Vulcan woman." Kelan looked at Kirk through heavily lidded eyes,

Kirk's mouth tightened. "Yes. We are currently working on a relocation plan."

"That would be a great relief, Captain." Kelan paused. "You think I am being too demanding, how do you say... Crossing a line, yes? Our antennae are quite sensitive. The stringed instrument she plays is grating inside my head, interfering with my thinking."

"I understand," Kirk said. "As I said, we should have that resolved shortly. Is there anything else that needs my attention?"

"Nothing at the moment, Captain Kirk. I expect to remain closeted in my quarters for the duration of the trip to Nu Aminta II. I would appreciate not being disturbed."

"Very well," Kirk said. "Cassady will remain available should you need anything. He will relay _any_ situation directly to my attention." His words were pointed and crisp. The Andorian tilted his head in understanding.

"Of course, Captain," he nodded. "Now, if you will excuse me..."

"Of course. Good evening," Kirk said. Kelan stepped back into his room and the door swooshed closed. Kirk stared at it a moment, then turned on his heel back to McCoy and Cassady. "So how is Vartheb getting on?"

"Actually, Sir, he has remained in his quarters," Cassady said. "Engineering did reprogram his food synthesizer and cabin control, but he has voiced no complaint."

"Interesting," Kirk said. "Let's pay a little visit." Vartheb responded to the door chime at once, standing back and motioning them in. Kirk introduced himself again. Vartheb bowed.

"Captain Kirk," he said in a soft voice that was almost a whisper. "It is a pleasure to meet you in person. How may I serve?"

"I am just checking to make sure you are finding your accommodations satisfactory. Is there anything you need? Kirk glanced around the room. Evidently the Andorian had not yet unpacked. There were no personal items visible at all.

Vartheb slowly shook his head. "No, Captain Kirk," he said. "All is suitable for my needs. I do not require a great deal. As a fact, I plan to spend quite some time in meditation prior to our arrival."

"I see," Kirk said. "If you should need anything, Yeoman Cassady will be your liaison until we arrive."

"Many thanks to you, Captain," Vartheb whispered. "I shall keep that in mind."

Kirk smiled briefly. "Good evening, then."

Vartheb inclined his head. "To you as well."

Kirk stepped out of the room and back to the waiting Cassady and McCoy. They followed him up the corridor. "Well," Kirk said, "perhaps staying in their quarters is a good thing." He stopped at T'Phol's room. "Here we go," he said. "Let's hope she is agreeable to the move." He pressed the chime and the door slid open. T'Phol glanced through the door at McCoy, then at Kirk. Kirk stepped forward, his smile now genuine.

"Miss Grayson, I am Captain James T. Kirk. Welcome to the Enterprise."

T'Phol stepped back to allow them to enter. She spread her fingers in the Vulcan salute. "Thank you, Sir.. I am honored." She nodded to McCoy. "Well met, Doctor McCoy, Mister Cassady."

"I hope you are finding everything to your liking, Miss Grayson," Kirk said.

"Yes," T'Phol replied. "I am quite comfortable."

"I am afraid I must impose on you," Kirk said. "I need to ask you to switch rooms. We have a little– problem."

"Certainly," T'Phol said immediately. "It is no imposition. I have hardly unpacked." She gestured to her bag, unopened in a chair. Her violin was laid across the bunk, and the odd wooden box was still on the floor.

"We have another room a little further down. We can move you now if you like."

"Of course, just a moment." She put the violin back in its case, then offered it to McCoy. "Could you carry this for me, Doctor McCoy?" she asked.

He grinned, accepting it from her hands. "I think I can manage this one," he said.

She threw her bag over her shoulder and reached for the box handle. "Let me get that for you," Kirk said quickly.

"No, Sir, that is quite all right," she said. "I prefer to carry this myself." Kirk stepped back and they marched down the corridor to her new quarters. The new room was only slightly smaller than the guest quarters, plain and serviceable.

"Thank you for your understanding," Kirk said as she entered. She put the box down and turned to him.

"I assure you, Captain, that I do not resent the change. Your hospitality is most kind."

"Please let me know if you need anything," Kirk said. "It would be my pleasure to show you the ship if you would like."

"Thank you. I will be certain to notify you if I should need your assistance."

"Good evening," Kirk said. "I hope you will find your trip aboard the Enterprise to be a pleasant journey.

"And a pleasant evening to you, Captain." Kirk and Cassady moved away, McCoy hung behind. T'Phol turned her attention to him.

McCoy handed her violin over. "I guess you'll need this."

"Yes, indeed. I am working on a new composition."

"I would love to hear it," McCoy said.

"Perhaps it will be complete before I depart the Enterprise. If so, I shall appreciate a trial audience."

"Oh, you could easily get an audience on the Enterprise. Miss Grayson, might I impose enough to ask if you'd be willing to give a small concert for our crew? It doesn't have to be much. We seldom have live performances on board. It would be a real treat."

"Is there a piano on board?"

"Yes, there is. Rec Room Five has a piano. A few people play it from time to time." He paused. "In fact, Spock plays sometimes when he's not playing his Vulcan harp."

"Spock prefers the lyre. He could be good at the piano if he wanted," said T'Phol. "I would like to see the piano, if I may."

"Sure. Now?" McCoy glanced at the chronometer at the computer terminal.

"Whenever is convenient," T'Phol answered. "I do not want to interfere with your duties"

"As CMO, I make the duty roster. Have you eaten? It's almost supper time."

"I have not eaten. Supper, you said?"

"A colloquial term," McCoy said "That's the informal evening meal we Southerners have instead of dinner. Suppose we get a bite to eat and then visit the piano?"

"That would be lovely, thank you, Doctor McCoy."

"I do need to check in at Sickbay for a minute. You can come with me if you want, or I will swing back here afterward."

"Please go ahead to Sickbay. I also have a few things to do. I shall wait here."

"All right. I'll see you shortly." McCoy left, joining Kirk at the turbolift.

"Well," McCoy said as the doors closed, "did you form an opinion?"

"Yes." Kirk said. "More than one. I do not like Kelan. I do not trust Vartheb."

"Listen to your gut feeling, Jim," McCoy said. "But Vartheb evidently does not hear well. Maybe that's a lot of his problem"

"Why do you say that?" Kirk was alert on McCoy. He knew that the doctor often saw things through a different filter than he or Spock, and he had learned to pay attention to those differences.

"Well, I could get out a text on Andorian physiology, but I know their hearing is more acute than Human, and their antennae are sensitive to frequencies that we cannot hear. Kelan was so disturbed by the violin that he couldn't think, while Vartheb never complained, and his room was closer."

Kirk stared at McCoy. "I didn't think of that," he said slowly. "But there's something else there, something...hidden. I'm going to post a guard in the area. Just in case."

"Cass will probably appreciate the company."

The turbolift halted and they stepped out. McCoy turned to Kirk. "I'm checking on a couple of things and then eating with Miss Grayson. She wants to inspect the piano. You want to join us?"

"Dinner with our guest already, Bones?" Kirk teased.

"No," McCoy said. "Supper."

Kirk chuckled. "Supper, then. I'll pass on it, paperwork waits. I'll probably eat late."

"Don't make it too late. Bad for the digestion."

They went separate directions, McCoy stuck his head in Chapel's office, but it was empty. He heard baritone humming coming from the treatment room. "Geoff?" he called. Doctor M'Benga's compact but muscular frame appeared in the doorway, calibration sensor in hand..

"Hullo, Leonard. I sent Nurse Chapel off duty early. Nothing much happening here that can't wait until Nurse Merrit comes in. I noticed bed two is almost due for calibration so I'm getting a jump on it."

"Didn't mean to bother you," McCoy said. "I'm just dropping in to check some lab results and finish a chart."

"The labs came in a few minutes ago, they've loaded on your PADD."

"Good, thanks." M'Benga followed McCoy to his office and waited while he checked the results. Satisfied, McCoy made a notation and put the tablet away.

"I understand we have guests aboard," M'Benga said. "Have you met them?"

"I was on the welcoming committee," McCoy answered. "I'll borrow one of Spock's words and say it was 'interesting'. The two Andorians were quarrelsome, but I guess they've settled down some. At least it was quiet when I left a few minutes ago."

"T'Phol Grayson was in the group?"

McCoy stared at M'Benga. "Does everyone on the ship know about her except me?" he groused. "Yes, she was and is. Are you a fan, too?"

"I like her music, yes," M'Benga replied, his calm unruffled. "I met Miss Grayson while I was first interning on Vulcan. She was just resuming her career following her break. I saw her in concert and then interviewed her for a paper I was writing. 'Neuroplasticity and Excelerated Synapse Connection versus External Compulsion and the Effect on Cognitive Development in the Exceptional Brain'." He paused. "At one time I thought I would be a psychiatrist, but space medicine pulled me instead."

"Yeah, " McCoy said. "That way you get plenty of both disciplines." He took a deep breath. "I am not going to ask about that paper," he continued, "because I am meeting her in a few minutes for a little tour. We can stop by here later if you'd like to renew your acquaintance."

"If you have time, sure," M'Benga said. "She had a very strong will which served her well as a child performer. I would like to see how she has matured."

"Another paper?" McCoy realized he sounded somewhat huffy.

"I doubt it," M'Benga answered mildly. "She was not a big fan of the first one. So much so that I did not publish with her data included. Sometimes human sensibilities must come before scientific effort. You might want to mention me first before you drop by. I am not sure she will be eager to chat."

McCoy was immediately sorry for his petulance. "That empathy is part of what makes you a great doctor, Geoff," he said. "And a right fair psychologist, too."

M'Benga smiled and nodded. "I have been fortunate to have great mentors and teachers."

"No doubt they had a good base to work with," McCoy said. "We'll see how it goes this evening. Have a good night."

"You, too." M'Benga turned back to his calibration, humming a popular show tune. McCoy headed to the turbolift. When he arrived, he saw that the waiting alcove was indeed occupied by a guard as Kirk had promised. McCoy stopped at the doorway. "Lieutenant Sama," he acknowledged. "Is Yeoman Cassady gone for the day?"

"Yes, Sir," Sama answered. "I am taking over as contact for tonight." He lowered his voice. "I am also on guard duty, but inconspicuously."

McCoy almost laughed, suppressing the comment that all security personnel looked like security, even while trying to seem innocuous. "Maybe you might try sitting at the desk rather than standing at attention," he suggested. "It looks a little less rigid. I am borrowing one of your subjects for a while."

"Yes, Sir. I'll make a note in the log."

McCoy continued to T'Phol's quarters and chimed. The door opened and she stepped aside for him to enter. He glanced around, immediately noticing the contraption in the wooden box which was now laying open on her bunk. He stepped closer, curious. The box halves formed a right angle platform and support for what he guessed was a musical instrument of some sort. There were two piano keyboards, although neither was full size, and a host of dials and buttons and small screens on different levels. He was a little surprised that all that equipment had evidently sprung from the one box.

"What is this?" he finally asked.

T'Phol stepped over to it and flicked a switch. Immediately the screens sprang to life with flickering graphs and colors.

"This is a Moog synthesizer," she said. "It's actually a hybrid system, not all of it is antique."

"What does it do? You play it?" McCoy ran a finger over a gleaming, polished edge.

"Yes, indeed. It can recreate the sound of over six hundred Earth instruments, and about three hundred fifty from other worlds, including Vulcan, Andor, Altaire, Tellar, and Delta IV. With this I can duplicate the sounds of all five types of musical instruments. Would you like to hear?" She pulled the desk chair over to the side of the bed and sat, turning several switches and dials. When her fingers began playing the keys, the sound was that of a horn. Flipping more switches changed the sound to other instruments. She ran through several in quick succession, horn, clarinet, bass, and a couple McCoy couldn't name, sounding a bit incongruous with Beethoven. She turned and looked up at him.

"I will use the Moog extensively in my translation work to reproduce tones," she said. "It is not a concert instrument for me, although on Earth in the late twentieth century it was used by a number of rock and roll genre bands."

"So this thing is three hundred years old?"

"Some parts of it, yes. The case, the keys, and many of the dials. The wiring, boards, and memory circuits have been replaced, of course, and it uses a modern battery rather than alternating current." T'Phol paused, stroking the polished wood fondly. "Various types of synthesizers exist today. But I find this historic instrument to be oddly compelling, like playing a Stradivarius. It is special and uncommon. It sings."

McCoy pointed to her violin. "I carried a Stradivarius? You should have told me! I'm not clumsy, but..."

T'Phol interrupted, breathing a small, soft huff that might have been a laugh. "No, no. I do not own a Stradivarius. I have played a borrowed one in concert. There are less than five hundred left, so they are rare and priceless. This is my travel instrument, of fine quality, but certainly not a Strad. My concert violins are at home."

"How many instruments can you play?" asked McCoy, interested.

"In concert I play violin, piano, and occasionally the hydrocrystalophone. I also play Vulcan lyre, harp, viola, cello, mandolin, and guitar competently, but not at exhibition level."

"I've heard of most of those, but hydro what?"

"It is better known as a glass armonica."

McCoy shook his head. "Still nothing. Let's go eat, you can tell me more about it."

T'Phol reached into her open bag, grabbing a sweater which she quickly donned. McCoy then noticed the temperature in her cabin was a little warmer than standard. "Are you cold?" he asked. "Does your thermostat adjust correctly?"

T'Phol looked at him with a hint of apology. "I find the common areas are a little cool," she said. "I did indeed increase the temperature in my cabin a bit. I am comfortable enough with a cover."

They headed down the hall. Sama was now seated at the desk as McCoy had suggested. He nodded a greeting as they passed. When they were out of earshot T'Phol turned to McCoy and stopped, pinning him with her eyes. He met her gaze equally, noting her eyes were an unusual color, a soft deep green with flecks of cerulean and gold. "Are we being guarded?" she asked.

"It's that easy to tell?" He sighed. "Not exactly guarded," he said. "You're not under arrest. Just a normal precaution when we have guests. Like Cassady, he's assigned to help with any questions or needs."

"Mister Cassady does not carry a weapon."

"No," McCoy said. "He is in a different department."

T'Phol frowned. "Travel on a military vessel is a new experience for me," she said, relenting. "I have never had an armed guard before. I suppose I shall become accustomed to the notion."

"Don't worry about him," McCoy said as they resumed walking. "After a while, the phasers become part of the scenery, although I sometimes don't carry one."

"No? Even on dangerous assignments?"

"I am a healer. It is abhorrent to me to think of taking a life," McCoy said gently. "But to answer you, yes, I go armed when necessary. I am a member of the crew and responsible for their safety." He stopped. "We have a choice for supper," he said. Here is the officer's lounge, or we can go to the big mess hall."

"Which ever is your preference, Doctor. I fear that I am disrupting your routine."

"Routines need some shakin' up occasionally. The officer's lounge will be quieter. We'll eat in peace. You can meet your adoring public in the rec room later."

"Adoring public?" T'Phol followed him to the food synthesizer, where she ordered a salad with various greens and a bowl of Vulcan squash soup. McCoy realized that he had not eaten all day. He opted for beans, cornbread, and a glass of milk. They carried the food to the table and sat. For a few minutes they ate without much chatting, McCoy finished the beans, and then crumbled the cornbread into his milk, a process that T'Phol watched with interest. He grinned at her. "This is a Southern delicacy," he said. "Cornbread and milk. I had this many times in my Grandma's kitchen. Hers was better."

"I see," T'Phol said. "I believe it is called comfort food."

McCoy nodded. "So," he said between bites, "tell me about the glass harmonica."

"Armonica, no H," T'Phol said, pushing her empty plate away. "The glass armonica is an obsolete Earth instrument invented by Benjamin Franklin. It consists of tuned glass bowls mounted on a turning spindle in order of increasing pitch. You play it by rubbing the bowl edges as they rotate. It has an ethereal quality. Mozart wrote several pieces for the armonica. As far as I am aware, I am the only musician playing one in concert. Mine is made with quartz bowls rather than glass, and during performance is accompanied by a light show. The sound is quite delicate and must be amplified to be audible in a large hall."

"You seem to like old things," McCoy commented. "Are you a student of Earth history?"

"Only musical history. For whatever reason, Earth has produced iconic music on a grand scale for hundreds of years. It is something humans do exceptionally well."

"Do you have a favorite genre?" McCoy spooned the last of his cornbread mixture.

"Earth Baroque, Classical, and Romantic," she answered instantly. "Renaissance period from Altaire. Post-modern Vulcan classical. And mid to late twentieth century Earth rock, but that is for personal gratification."

"Really? I began liking old classic rock music as a teen, mostly the guitar driven bands. Then in medical school one of my instructors always listened to it in the operating room theater. I still hear Aerosmith in my head when I initiate the sterile field. I'm glad you like it, that makes me feel validated. But I prefer Van Morrison, The Beatles, Pink Floyd, Dire Straits, others like that over the metal bands."

He pushed back from the table and took their trays to the recycle unit. "Are you ready to meet the piano, Miss Grayson?" he asked.

"Please call me T'Phol. And lead the way."

* * *

The rec room was sparsely populated when they arrived, but Chief Engineer Scott was plunked in a chair, an old fashioned paper tech manual at hand. He looked up as they entered and rose to his feet. "Ah, g'evening Doctor McCoy. This is our musical guest?"

"Yes, this is T'Phol Grayson. T'Phol, meet Montgomery Scott. He keeps the ship in one piece, often beyond all odds. We call him our miracle worker."

"It's a pleasure, Lassie." Scott almost reached for her hand before remembering she was Vulcan, so he turned he gesture into a little wave instead. "I hope yer findin' everything to be ship shape on board."

"Yes, the Enterprise is beautiful, Mister Scott," T'Phol said. McCoy realized that she had evidently cultivated the knack for saying the right small talk in conversation. Scott was beaming, he loved nothing more than hearing accolades to his ship.

"Aye, that she is," Scott agreed. "I could give ye a tour of the engine room if you'd like."

"I would like that, thank you. Tonight we are here to investigate the piano."

"It's right over here," Scott pointed to the corner where the piano sat on a small raised area. T'Phol stepped up and lifted the cover, and took a seat at the bench. She ran a scale up and down the keys and nodded. "It is an electronic piano, so it is in tune," she said to McCoy and Scott. "I suppose it would be difficult to keep a traditional piano true in outer space." She turned back to the keyboard. "Do the gentlemen have any requests?"

"Lady's discretion," Scott said, pulling his chair closer. McCoy sat on the platform step, stretching his legs out in front of him.

"All right, I will do something familiar first. You have probably heard the first movement. The third takes more preparation mentally. I cannot do it justice on short notice."

She began playing quietly, the notes of Beethoven flowing from the keys. McCoy watched her for a minute, then found himself closing his eyes and losing himself in the music. As T'Phol played, several crew members wondered in and took positions silently. Soon a crowd of about twenty was gathered in the rec room, including Uhura and Chekov. They were held enthralled until the last note faded, then broke into applause. T'Phol turned around, noting the audience growth in the few minutes that had elapsed. She rose and bowed, graceful from years of experience.

"You have been listening to Beethoven's Piano Sonata Number Fourteen," she announced, "commonly known as The Moonlight Sonata. The first movement is more widely recognized. Next I present a piece by composer Johannes Brahms. Written for the full orchestra, here is the second movement, Brahms Piano Concerto Number One in D minor."

The crowd grew. By midway through the second piece the room was getting full, all the seats were taken and people were lining the walls. Uhura moved through the crowd followed by Chekov, and they sat beside McCoy on the step. Brahms drew to a close to enthusiastic applause and a few cheers. T'Phol turned, sweeping her eyes over the room and acknowledging their approval. After a moment, she raised her hand to quiet the clapping. When the room was quiet again, she spoke.

"We are putting together a concert for later in this journey," she began, interrupted by more applause. "For tonight, I will close with an extemporization from the twentieth century. Thank you all for your kind reception." She turned, looking down at McCoy, with a slight enigmatic smile before putting hands to keys. T'Phol closed her eyes for a minute, then began. It took him a few bars to recognize it, having never heard it as a piano solo. Then he almost unconsciously began singing along, softly, but Uhura could hear his voice was pleasant and pitched true.

The last notes faded, and T'Phol turned, locking gazes with McCoy for a moment and then the applause came. Uhura stared at the doctor, both surprised and impressed. They had worked together for almost five years, and she never heard him sing. She laid her hand on his arm, and he looked at her, dazed, his eyes shiny and distant. It took him a moment to focus on her. The crowd was moving forward to greet T'Phol, so Uhura took his hand, pulling him to his feet and leading him to the side out of the flow.

"Hey, are you all right?" She gently chafed his hand, which felt very cold.

He nodded. "Yes, I felt a little dizzy. I'm better now."

Uhura looked at him skeptically. "Are you sure?"

He squeezed her hands and pulled away. "Yes, I'm the doctor, remember?"

"I do remember. Well, you should add singer to your list of things you are. That was fabulous," Uhura said quietly, under the cover of the noisy room. "Why haven't you ever told me you can sing?"

McCoy cleared his throat, swallowing hard, and shook his head. "I don't sing. Except for lullabies, I haven't sung out of the shower since I was a kid in chorus," he said. "That song is..." He was looking again at T'Phol, who was mingling with the crew members, seemingly at ease with the process. "I don't know how she knew that..."

Uhura had no reply, so they stood together as the crowd began to dwindle. Finally T'Phol made her way to their corner.

"That was wonderful," Uhura said. "I wasn't expecting an impromptu concert this evening. Thank you so much."

"Thank you, Miss Uhura. I am glad you enjoyed it. You should bring your lyre. I have several pieces adapted for the twelve string lyre. I believe you said Spock has been giving you some lessons?"

"I am still practically a beginner, though. And at the rate it's going I'm not likely to advance very far."

"The joy seems often in the pursuit, especially where hobbies are concerned. If you would like, come to my quarters when you are off duty and we shall continue your pursuit of the Vulcan lyre. Perhaps you will surprise Spock when he returns ."

T'Phol then turned to McCoy. Uhura noticed her features relaxed ever so slightly and her eyes grew soft and seemed lit from within. "You mentioned doing a concert for your crew," she said. "It seems I have now promised them one. We might want to begin planning the particulars."

"Yes, I suppose we should." McCoy fell uncharacteristically quiet. Uhura stepped into the silence.

"I'll help. For one thing, we will need a bigger space. I think we should use the main mess hall. And we can broadcast through the ship." She looked at T'Phol. "It's not Carnegie Hall, but we'll do our best."

"Do not say that," T'Phol said, suddenly intense. "I have played at Carnegie Hall, and countless other large venues since I was five years old. There is a great deal to be said for playing for a small audience where there are no cameras or critics or reporters waiting for interviews. Where I can improvise a piece as I go." Her eyes found McCoy's again. "Where I can play for individuals rather than masses." She snapped back to Uhura. "So you see, it is perfectly fine that the Enterprise is not Carnegie Hall. I do not expect that, nor is it necessary." She paused a moment, then added, "I very much am looking forward to this performance, small and insignificant though you might think it to be. I have a large repertoire for both piano and violin. Let me know what sort of things you think your people would most enjoy."

"I will do that," Uhura promised. "I'll be in touch, certainly, and I'd appreciate those lessons, too."

T'Phol inclined her head. "They are yours at your convenience, Miss Uhura."

"Thank you so much.," Uhura said. Scott approached the three, tech manual still in hand.

"That was right bonnie playing, Miss T'Phol", he said. "I'm looking forward to hearing more."

"That is good," Uhura said, taking his arm, "because you are going to build us a stage in the mess hall."

"Ach, it'll be my pleasure, for sure. I'll draw some plans. Does anyone want to join me for dinner?" he asked.

"I'll be glad to, if you promise not to eat Haggis," Uhura said, poking him in the shoulder.

"What about you two?" Scott turned to McCoy and T'Phol.

"No thanks, Scotty," McCoy replied. "I've already had supper." T'Phol also shook her head. "I was introduced to southern fare earlier, cornbread. Is Haggis a comfort food, too? "

Scott and Uhura both laughed. "Ah, Lassie. Dinna let the good doctor lead ye down a bad path. I'll bet he soaked it in milk, too," Scott said, still chuckling. "Haggis is a Scottish dish that few people can appreciate outside of a true Scotsman.I suppose it is as comfortable as it gets. The synthesizers can't make a decent Haggis anyway."

"At least cornbread doesn't stink," Uhura said. "Are you ready? I'm hungry."

Scott tucked her hand in his arm. "I'll get in touch about what you will need for your stage," he said to T'Phol with a nod to McCoy as he and Uhura left.

McCoy turned to T'Phol, nodding toward the doorway. "Let's walk," he said. "I'd like to talk, but not here."

"You are upset." It was a statement rather than a question.

"No," he said slowly, "not exactly. But there are some things I don't understand."

He led her down the corridor to the small alcove at the entrance to the arboretum. He sat on a small bench, shoulders slumping. T'Phol sat beside him. She could smell the green growing things, a loamy and damp smell, very different than the desert planet she called home. She breathed deeply, closing her eyes and leaning back against the bench. McCoy rubbed his neck, feeling tiredness wash over him. For a few minutes neither spoke. Then she sat up, opening her eyes and studied his profile.

"What is it you want to understand, Doctor McCoy?" she finally asked. "I am sorry you found your Van Morrison song to be distressful. I chose it because I thought you would like it. Indeed, I heard you singing along."

"Damned Vulcan ears." He straightened, not looking at her. "Sorry. I didn't mean that."

"I know," she said. "Spock has told me a little about you."

"Damn. Well, don't believe a word he said."

"Would you not like to know what he said before you decide?"

"No."

He heard her softly exhale, almost a sigh, but she did not elaborate.

"Into the Mystic. Why did you choose that particular song? How did you know it has monumental significance in my life?" McCoy's tone was sharp. "You didn't have written music. Had you played it before?"

T'Phol's eyebrow raised. " _You_ named him as one of your favorites from the genre. The lyrics seem as fitting for space men sailing the cosmic ocean as much as sailors over the deep blue seas. I thought it was a logical choice. I might have chosen the Beatles or Elton John or Billy Joel or any one from dozens of others. I am familiar with many Earth artists of that genre and time period, particularly those who make extensive use of piano. It is purely coincidental that Morrison's work happens to resonate with me as well. My motive was no deeper than that, I assure you.

"I never use sheet music while performing. I do study written notation, preferably a copy in the artist's own hand when learning a new concert piece. I have a photographic memory for music. After hearing a song, I can see the score in my head. I had heard that song before, so it was simply a matter of letting my fingers feel the way. Had I realized it would disturb you so, I would not have chosen it."

McCoy took a deep breath. "I was off balance. That song takes me to another place and time. I wasn't expecting to go there. I don't _want_ to go there. And it seemed like you were- inside my head. I don't play piano, but I felt my hands on those keys, I knew what chords were coming next...Then it ended and I sort of woke up. I didn't realize I was singing until Uhura told me."

T'Phol looked at him, troubled. "I shall not play it again."

McCoy finally turned to look at her, his eyes gleaming and intensely blue. "It was a beautiful rendition," he said quietly. "I was taken by surprise, I guess. Not your fault. It was lovely, but it was also a shock."

They were silent a few minutes, then McCoy continued.

"I have a confession to make. Spock approached me and and suggested that I make sure to meet you while you are on board the ship. In fact, he was almost adamant about it. I don't like that hanging over me or influencing what I say or don't say to you while you're here. I don't like secrets."

"I know. He told me."

"He told you?"

"Yes. I went with my grandparents to meet him when he arrived on Vulcan. He suggested that I seek your company while aboard. He thought you might be somewhat reticent. He is quite often right about things."

"Your grandparents?" McCoy felt like he was a character in the midst of an important story, but losing the thread. He was unraveling.

"Yes, Sarek and Amanda."

McCoy was incredulous. "Ambassador and Missus Sarek are your grandparents? But..." He stopped abruptly. "Is Spock your _father_?"

"No. my father is Sybok." She paused. "I see you do not know of him. He is Spock's older half brother, son of Sarek and his first wife, a Vulcan princess who died."

McCoy stared at T'Phol, dumfounded. Finally he said, "I never knew Spock has a brother."

"I am not surprised that Spock has not spoken of him," T'Phol said. "Although it is not a secret, Sybok is not spoken of often in or out of the family. Also Spock keeps things close." She stopped a long moment before continuing. "My mother is an Earth Human who was living on one of the border worlds and met my father there. I will tell you if you wish. But not tonight."

"Agreed. I think we've had enough deep conversation for this evening," McCoy said. "But when you are ready, I will be here to listen."

"You have a way of inviting confidence, Doctor McCoy," she said, shyness shading her voice. "That must work as an asset to you as a physician."

"I have often been told my bedside manner could use some improvement. Just ask my chief nurse. Or practically anyone." He stood, weary and spent.

T'Phol rose from the bench. "Perhaps gruffness might work as an asset as well. You look fatigued, as I am. Shall we go?"

They proceeded down the corridor to her quarters without talk. She keyed in the door code, turning to McCoy.

"I appreciate your time and attention," she said. "In fact, I find it pleasurable. But do not feel compelled to entertain me. I have things to occupy my time, and you must be busy."

"Am I a drain on your resource allotment?" McCoy asked with a crooked smile.

"Of course not."

"Then, with your permission, I'll see you tomorrow." He turned to leave.

"Thank you, Doctor McCoy," T'Phol said. He turned back for a moment, and nodded. T'Phol watched him down the corridor and out of sight.


	7. Chapter 7

That night the dream returned.

It had been years since he had the dream. For the first years after the Divorce, it came with frightening and devastating frequency. Sometimes the details were a little different. But always the same scene played in vivid color. The perfect coral dress she was wearing, her perfect blonde hair, the perfectly manicured nails, inside their perfectly appointed living room. Telling him she was done. Talk to my lawyer done. Done and taking Johanna. His daughter's frightened little face, trying to cling to her daddy as the perfect coral woman drug the wailing child out of what was soon to be not his home or his life. Sometimes the perfect coral woman looked like a spider. But usually, and more disturbing to him, she looked like herself. But still filled with venom.

After the Divorce he had turned to the bottle and sometimes other drugs, trying to drown the dream, the memories, and what was left of his life into oblivion. A lot of that period was lost to him, and he was glad. He had lost his family, his home, then his job, and finally almost his sanity and his life.

He did remember fragments of the day he almost died. He was staying in a cheap rented room in an unfortunate neighborhood in Atlanta near the university hospital where he used to work. He didn't actually recall swallowing the pills with the half bottle of cheap whiskey he drank to wash them down. He didn't remember turning on the small stereo that he had managed to keep from his part of the Divorce settlement. He did remember the words penetrating his brain through the haze.

Let your soul and spirit fly  
Into the mystic

And when that fog horn blows  
I will be coming home  
And when the fog horn blows  
I want to hear it  
I don't have to fear it

He must have crawled to the toilet to make himself vomit. He remembered retching into the dirty basin and seeing fragments of red and yellow capsules floating in bile and slimy water and he thought it was too late, he would die anyway, that he would be killed not by the Divorce but by his own inadequacies and fear.

He did not know how long he laid on the bathroom floor in a narcotic fugue. When he came to, he was not sure if he was still alive or dead in some Hell that was just like life.

He eventually decided he was, after all, in the realm of the living. He showered, put on the cleanest clothes he could find and walked out of the dingy room with two things: The framed picture of him and his daughter in happier times, and the music pod with Van Morrison's album 'Moondance'.

* * *

He thought he must have screamed. He sat bolt upright in bed, trembling with fear and rage and wet with sweat. It took him a minute to realize he was awake and begin to shake off the terror. Then he knew he was going to be sick. He made it to the bathroom and vomited until he was empty and shaking with dry heaves. He looked in the mirror at his very pale and morose reflection. A different man stared back at him than the younger McCoy in the grim Atlanta apartment. But sometimes he could still feel that desolate and hopeless person inside.

He pulled off his soaked clothing and showered, watching the water run in rivulets down his body and circle the drain. He closed his eyes, wishing the layers of insecurity and despondency he wore might be as easily removed as physical grime and sweat. He stood in the shower a long time, his tears mixing with the water and washing away.

* * *

McCoy did not try to sleep after his night terror. He sat in the semi-darkness of his quarters the rest of the night. He composed a letter to Johanna, now almost twenty two, but he could only think of empty and trivial chit chat, so he did not send it. He straightened and tidied, a task he tended to ignore as long as possible. Outside of sickbay, he was not a good housekeeper.

He firmly refused to open his liquor cabinet. During his post divorce recovery, he had discovered he was not a typical alcoholic. Once he went through detox, he found he could take the booze or leave it. He had never been drunk or compromised when on duty, a habit that had saved his medical license when he lost his emergency room position. So he had continued to drink occasionally, sometimes more than occasionally. Rarely he drank enough to be inebriated. Not just tipsy but sloppy drunk. Three sheets in the wind, his Grandma called it. But that night he could feel the demons from the past lingering close at hand, their cold and steely claws sharp and ready. So he sipped water. And thought.

He thought about his failed marriage. It was a subject that lurked in the back of his mind, but he never allowed himself to dwell on it, at least not in the daylight. And there were times when he did almost forget for a while.

After a time, he had grown to realize and accept that both of them had fault to share. In many ways he thought he bore the greater burden in his marriage's demise because he had failed to pay attention to what was happening right before his eyes. They had once loved each other, that he believed. It had taken a few years for the fundamental differences between them to exert an ultimately fatal toll on their relationship. He could forgive her having someone on on the side during the last years they were together. He was working a great many hours, both as a physician and in research, and he understood loneliness as well as anyone. He could try to understand her love of possessions more than people _,_ although that was harder. Jocelyn came from a privileged home, she was used to fine _expensive_ things surrounding her. She had good taste, he supposed. And perhaps things were a substitute for his company.

What he could not forgive was her cruelty during the divorce and her willingness to use their daughter as a weapon against him. Her father's lawyers shredded him, and Jocelyn was granted full custody. He was allowed one afternoon every week with Johanna, dates he kept until his descent into depression and alcoholism accelerated. He was fired from Emory, officially for missing shifts, which was true enough. His supervisor, a kind man who realized McCoy was gifted but in trouble, fired him as gently as he could, and urged him to get help. After he lost his job, Jocelyn went back to court and terminated all visitation. Then his year of Hell on Earth began for real.

After his aborted suicide attempt, he entered a rehab program in the cool mountains of North Carolina away from Atlanta. During Hell year he had lost thirty pounds. On his already thin frame, the result was almost skeletal and was by far the hardest physical obstacle he had to overcome, harder than withdrawal from the drugs and alcohol, which was brutal but lasted only a few days. His nutritional problems continued to plague him for years. Sixteen years later, he was thinner than he had been before Hell, still had days when he forgot to eat or did not keep it down.

During his months in rehab, he was a good patient for the only time in his life. He did what was recommended by the doctors and staff and tried to cooperate in the psychological portion of his recovery. He learned more about psychiatry there than in medical school, but found he could not fully open up to his counselors, and the deeply buried private things stayed deep and private.

He was grateful for his stay in the rehabilitation facility. He was on his feet, sober, and recovering his health. He found solace in the misty and brooding Appalachians. He spent many hours, either in solitude or sometimes with the facility dog walking the forested paths and sitting beside the rushing and cold streams. He thought of changing professions and becoming a forest ranger. But then his talent, training and calling began to stir. He sent out tentative feelers to old associates, which eventually landed him in San Francisco and then Starfleet.

He began communicating with his daughter again, and over the years managed to see her at times, perhaps not enough to be extremely close, but enough that she thought of him as 'dad'. He never inquired about her mother, and Johanna, a sensitive child, did not volunteer much information. He knew Jocelyn had remarried twice, first to her paramour, then to an older man who seemed to be her true love. He could not find the graciousness inside to be happy for her or wish her well.

He ruminated for most of the night on memories he would have preferred to continue to suppress. Then toward dawn he went to his closet and searched for the small box he knew was there. It took a few minutes to find it in the jumbled space, but he did. He set it carefully on his desk and stared at it for a while. Finally he opened it, and took out the tape. It contained what was for a while the soundtrack to his life. Early in his recovery he had listened to it again and again as a reminder that at least at that one point he had wanted to live. It became his anthem, a talisman, his focus point when he wanted to give up and surrender again to the darkness. Once he gained enough strength and vitality to embrace life again, he removed that particular song from his playlist. He had not heard it in almost sixteen years until T'Phol brought it to life, unwittingly waking whatever devils slumbered in his dark place. He turned it over and over in his hands. In the end, he did not listen to it, but he also did not put it away.


	8. Chapter 8

McCoy was punctual, so he walked into Sickbay three minutes before he was to start his shift. Chapel, who was more than punctual, was already at her desk, setting up for the day's routine. He stopped first at the synthesizer and ordered coffee, black and strong.

" Chris, I'd like for you to make some schedule changes."

"Well, good morning to you, too," Chapel said, shuffling some items around before looking up. She rose from her chair in alarm. "Leonard, what's wrong? What's happened?"

McCoy grimaced, holding up his hand. "Nothing. Stop hovering, dammit!" he snapped, much sharper than he intended. Immediately he was filled with remorse. He ran a hand through his hair. "Sorry, Chris. I'm such a damned bastard." He reached across and touched her hand, trying not to see the sting of hurt in her eyes, knowing he had caused it. "Please forgive me. I did have a bad night last night, but it's nothing. I'm sorry."

Chapel blinked and smiled weakly. "Forgiven," she said. She gave his hand a quick squeeze, which he returned before letting go. She put on her professional voice. "What kind of schedule change?"

"Cover my afternoons and evenings for a few days."

Chapel looked at him in surprise. It was far more common for her CMO to work a double shift rather than a half day. "Really? You never take time off..." She broke off and sat with her PADD and stylus. "Never mind. I will be glad to do that, Doctor."

McCoy sat across from her, sipping the strong coffee. "Christine, I didn't mean it." He looked down and swirled the liquid in the cup, sighing.

Chapel looked at his face, drawn and weary, and put the stylus down. "At the risk of being bitten twice," she said gently, "I am going to ask if I can help."

McCoy sat silently, studying his cup. She waited. Finally he spoke.

"Do you still wrestle with Roger's ghost?"

Chapel understood immediately what he was asking.

"Not often, not any more. I did, at first. Sometimes the regret still creeps in, in my weak moments." She took a deep breath. "I give myself that moment of weakness, then lock it away. It gets easier to lock him away every time. I'm winning."

She saw him swallow. He did not look up. "You're stronger than me. Women usually are the strong ones. And you're called the weaker sex." He gave a short, mirthless laugh.

"Leonard...I have found that ghosts are as strong as you allow them to be."

"Yeah, maybe."

He drained the last of his coffee and stood. "I'll be in the office." He turned away. "Chris," he said, without looking at her, "I don't want to lose."

"You're strong, too. You won't lose."

He shook his head, and continued into his office, closing the door. Chapel looked after him, worried and afraid. It was a long time before she picked up her stylus.

* * *

T'Phol had also spent a restless night, thinking some of the past, but more of the present. McCoy's reaction had surprised and dismayed her, although she had been careful to hide most of her concern from him. His anxiety at hearing the song was troubling, but spoke to an underlying irrationality that she could not have anticipated. His perception that she was "inside" his mind was more disturbing and perplexing. She searched her own mind, looking for an indication that she had telepathically projected more than a usual amount, but came up empty. She wondered if she was more her father's child than she previously believed.

She thought about Spock pushing his agenda that she and McCoy should meet. Spock insisted that McCoy would teach her about being a whole person. She argued that she had always integrated her Human side into her personality, unlike some people she knew. He rejoined that they both existed as a dichotomy. And so it went.

She did not tell Spock that she already planned to seek out McCoy on the journey. She viewed him as a friend, although they had never met. Her grandparents both held the doctor in high esteem, Sarek because he was a gifted surgeon who had saved his life during the Babel conference, and because the ambassador admired honest men of substance and honor. Amanda, too, was grateful for that, but her regard went far deeper. She loved him because of her son. McCoy had quite possibly saved her son's life along with his captain's during the disastrous marriage battle over T'Pring, freeing Spock from a lifetime shackled to the woman Lady Amanda privately, and in a most un-Vulcanlike manner, referred to as 'that egotistical bitch.' And she sensed that, despite their ongoing squabble, the two men, along with Kirk, shared a deep affection and brotherhood that Spock would find no where else, even with his biological half-brother.

T'Phol had not been prepared for the reality that was actually Leonard McCoy. She immediately realized that she had been under the sway of a type of hero worship. The man was nothing like she expected. He was neither ten meters tall, nor did he seem to shoot bolts of wisdom like lightning from his aged brow. Instead he was younger and smaller than she had pictured, a stick figure with a thick mop of hair, animated features, laser eyes, and an easy smile. He looked too frail to withstand the rigors of Starfleet. He exuded healing warmth and contentiousness simultaneously, and the force of his personality was undeniable. She had never met anyone like that outside of her father, and possibly Amanda. But her father was disturbed, and Amanda was genteel and gracious, the wife of Vulcan's ambassador to Earth, thus her fire was banked. McCoy burned.

Her meditation did not go as well as it might. She spent most of the night on the Moog, softly visiting the twentieth century.


	9. Chapter 9

McCoy worked most of the morning, then turned Sickbay over to Chapel. He went to his quarters, splashed his face and grabbed another strong coffee, then headed for T'Phol's cabin. Cassady was on duty again. He and T'Phol were sitting in the alcove, both working on tablets. T'Phol heard his approach first, looking up from her work. She stood, greeting him with her slight smile he had come to recognize, but her eyes were a little guarded. She looked at him rather closely, but if she saw the sleepless night reflected in his features, she made no comment.

"Hello, Doctor. You are here early."

"Yeah." He sat with his coffee in hand. "What have you been doing? Stayin' occupied?"

"Indeed," T'Phol said drily, not missing his reference. She held out the PADD for him to see. "I am designing the stage lighting and recording device placement for the concert. Mister Scott will fabricate and assemble the stage elements and move the piano. What day did you have in mind for the performance?"

"Ya know, I think we should ask Jim. Do you have a preference? Do you need time to practice or something?"

"No. I typically meditate just before performing."

"I am free for the rest of the day. Would you like a tour of the ship? I know Scotty is anxious to show off Engineering." He looked further down the corridor to the guest quarters. "How are Kelan and Vartheb getting along?" he asked Cassady.

Cassady shrugged. "I have only talked to them via the comm unit," he said. I inquired as to their comfort and was told everything is acceptable. Which is fine with me."

"They haven't been out at all?" McCoy's eyes narrowed as he looked down the corridor. He got up, setting his coffee on the desk. "I'm probably gonna be sorry, but I think I'm going to say hello. This is very odd." He walked to the first room, which was Vartheb's, and rang the chime. After two times, the Andorian answered. McCoy smelled some sort of incense drifting into the corridor and coughed. "Good afternoon, Vartheb."

"Yes? Vartheb said in his almost whisper. "Good afternoon, McCoy, isn't it?"

"That's right. I was wondering if you need anything." He coughed again, his eyes began watering. "It seems you haven't been out. Would you like to tour the Enterprise this afternoon?" He coughed again more forcefully.

Vartheb glanced up the hall, then shook his head. More smoke wafted from the doorway. McCoy wondered when the corridor alarm would activate. "Do you have a fire in there?" He peered past Vartheb into the room, which was hazy and dimly lit with blue. He felt a tear leak from his eye, and suppressed another hack. He tried to hold his breath.

"It is ceremonial defkato from our planet. It is not on fire. It is quite safe. We use it as an aid to meditation. Engineering has disabled the particle alarm in my quarters temporarily." He looked gravely at the doctor, whose face was beginning to turn red as he coughed several times.

Cassady took a tentative step toward McCoy. "Are you all right, Doc?" McCoy waved him back.

"Vartheb, this is a problem, this smoke. I have to get out," he gasped between coughing and trying not to breathe deeply. Another tear dripped down his face. "Please close the door and keep it closed."

Vartheb nodded and the door slid closed. McCoy expelled the breath he had been trying to hold and coughed his way back up the corridor. Cassady met him at the end of the corridor, but McCoy shook off his offer of assistance. He sputtered and hacked another minute and wiped his eyes. When he regained his voice, he pointed to Cassady's tablet. "I don't know what the hell that stuff is, but I want this event documented, and while you're at it, verify with engineering that the alarm was deactivated by them. I need to find out what we're dealing with here and if it is harmful other than being a Human mucosal and respiratory irritant. At any rate, don't go near it." He was racked with another set of breathless coughing.

"Oh no, Sir, I won't," Cassady said. "Are you OK, Doc? Should I call a med team?"

"No, I'll go get checked in a few minutes," McCoy gasped, catching his breath a little. The more important thing is to make sure no one else gets exposed. Obviously Vartheb is gonna have to meditate some other way. Kelan, too, if he's been partaking. First thing I need to know is what we're dealing with. Cass, get a hazmat team here and a decontamination unit."

He punched the intercom button. "McCoy to bridge."

"Kirk here," came the immediate response.

"Jim, we have a situation. Can you meet me in the guest alcove?" He paused to cough some more.

"On my way."

McCoy turned to T'Phol. "You need to clear the area. If you will go to your quarters, I will come by when we get this cleared up."

"All right. Please take caution."

A moment later Kirk barreled out of the turbolift. "What's going on, Bones? What happened?"

"It seems at least one of our Andorian guests is having a little party," McCoy said, punctuated by a few wheezing coughs, "and we don't want to be invited." He proceeded to fill the captain in. Kirk's countenance darkened as he listened.

"Here is the incident report, sir," Cassady said, handing his tablet to Kirk. "Engineering confirms that the particle detector was disabled at Vartheb's request, but the flame detector is still operational."

Kirk's eyes flashed, but he made no comment. "Is Kelan also smoking this stuff?"

"Engineering reported that he did not request an alarm adjustment."

Scott and another crewman exited the turbolift. Scott was carrying a sensor device and they both were wearing respirators. Scott was taking readings on the way. He waved it all around them, pausing on McCoy, then looked at Kirk.

"I can give ye the chemical formula for what it's worth, the substance has traces of phosgene, several kinds of organic matter, very alkaline. CS and CN. The concentration is less than one thousandth ppm at the lift, it's about zero zero three ppm here, except Dr. McCoy tops at about point zero zero seven ppm." He ran the scanner over McCoy again. "Aye, seven." He looked at McCoy and added, "You probably got some in yer clothes and hair. Scott walked down the hall, taking readings along the way. He took a while at both doors then made his way back. He pulled off the mask, which McCoy was privately grateful to see.

"Well, it is worse outside the first room. Over zero forty at the deck plate. About a two in the air mid hall. Trace at the other end. That's about what I'd expect to see from a heavier than air particulate diffusion."

Kirk turned to McCoy. "How much danger are we in at those concentrations? Is it safe to access the situation from here?"

"I'd say yes, unless he opens the door. CS and CN are eye irritants, the phosgene is mostly respiratory. The organic compounds are probably the binder. It must be more like tear gas than a toxic agent. Just a few whiffs is irritating, breathing it in higher concentration or for a long period of time could be injurious."

"Disable the door circuitry, in case Vartheb decides to come out. When that's done, we'll call him on the comm unit." Kirk turned to the other crewman. "Can we safely isolate this agent during the air exchange?"

"Yes, sir."

"How soon before you'll be ready?"

"We can have it set up in thirty minutes, Captain. It would be quicker, but in an occupied room we cannot evacuate the entire cubic air content at once."

Two more crew arrived carrying the portable decontamination unit. McCoy waved them over. "I'm your subject." They quickly set up the tent and field isolator around him and the machine hummed into life. The process took a few minutes. When it was finished Scotty ran the sensor over him. "Good job, you're clear." Then he turned to bark an order at the team who had quickly assembled. The hatchway was open above the corridor and several people were busy above his head.

Kirk was on the intercom with Vartheb and it did not appear to be going well. McCoy leaned in to hear the Andorian's soft whispering voice.

"But, Captain, I can assure you that defkato is harmless. I have not used it outside of my room..."

"Perhaps it is harmless to you, but it poses a real danger to my mostly Human crew. This matter is not up for debate, Vartheb. Please extinguish any of the substance and prepare for a total air exchange. You will hear some sounds and brisk air flow, and when we are done we will send a unit to verify that it's safe. You may be required to undergo a decontamination process yourself. After the area is cleared, we may discuss possible alternative solutions. Kirk out." He punched the button with some force.

McCoy looked down the corridor at Kelan's cabin. "Don't you find it odd that Kelan hasn't even cracked the door to see what is going on? Someone needs to check on him." He stifled another cough or two.

"This is getting on my nerves," Kirk said. He looked closer at McCoy's face, noting the doctor was very pale apart from his flushed cheeks and red rimmed eyes that seemed bluer than normal. "Bones, I think you should get to Sickbay and get checked out. Scotty and the team can handle it from here."

"With his permission, I'd like to examine Vartheb when the decon is finished."

"I'll be sure to mention it," Kirk said drily. "Now go, Captain's orders."

To his surprise, McCoy did not argue. "Keep me informed, Jim," McCoy said, and walked away down the corridor toward T'Phol's room. He knocked softly on the door, She appeared almost immediately.

"Are you all right?" T'Phol looked at him hard.

"I think so. I'm on the way to Sickbay for a quick check. And I want to look up that defkato in the medical files. They're going to decontaminate Vartheb's room, which might take some time. Scotty will be tied up here for a while. After all this, it might be a good idea to put off the grand tour until later."

"Certainly. May I accompany you?"

"To Sickbay?" McCoy was a little surprised. Then he realized he would be glad for her company. "Sure, if you want."

They headed down the corridor and boarded the turbolift.

Nurse Chapel was still there when they entered. McCoy put extra warmth in his greeting to make up for his earlier behavior, relayed what had happened, and introduced T'Phol. McCoy went into his office to his own computer terminal. He spelled the word wrong so it took him a couple of tries to find the correct information. He frowned as he read, then terminated the connection with a little more force than necessary.

He stalked back into the reception area and pulled Chapel to the side.

"Damned stuff is an Andorian hallucinogen used as a CNS stimulant. Its stimulant effect on Human physiology has not been fully demonstrated." He uttered an expletive, punctuated by more coughing. "Defkato is also a skin and mucous membrane irritant to iron based hemoglobin, which is the effect I am experiencing. There are a few documented cases of ARDS, response to inhaled bronchodilators and various steroidal concoctions is usually good."

Chapel frowned. "What is the onset time frame?"

"Within twenty-four hours. I don't think I inhaled that much, but just to be on the safe side I'm going to carry a dose of epi and wear a monitor."

"I'll get them right away," Chapel said.

T'Phol moved closer. "What is ards? Is it dangerous?"

"I forgot about your Vulcan hearing again, T'Phol. Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome. It can be dangerous. It depends on the causative agent, whether it's something like a toxic gas, an allergen, or asphyxia agent, or a damned Andorian psychedelic incense, the amount inhaled or absorbed, and how much damage is done to the lung mucosa. Sometimes the onset of symptoms is immediate, sometimes it takes a while for the reaction to start."

"Do you think you have been damaged?"

McCoy shrugged. "I don't think so. I'm just taking precautions. You never know how an alien drug will react with Human physiology." His eyes crinkled with a smile. "You gotta admit it's made the afternoon exciting."

"Indeed." T'Phol's expression was unreadable.

Chapel returned with a small hypo and the monitor, which looked like a flat wristwatch. McCoy checked the dosage on the hypo and slipped it in his pocket. She fastened the monitor around his wrist and activated it.

"A syringe?" T'Phol asked.

"The hypo is filled with epinephrine, a bronchodilator," Chapel said. "That will help him breath until we can get real support to him, should it be necessary. The monitor is linked to our biomed system. It will track his vital signs and alert us if something is abnormal." She shot a look at McCoy, then back at T'Phol. "If you see him begin having difficulty breathing, you take that hypo and jab him in the neck with it. It will discharge a measured dose by itself. If that doesn't help, do it a second time. The monitor will let us know where he is."

"Nurse, stop talking about me like I'm not here. No one is gonna be jabbing me because I really don't think I inhaled enough to cause that kind of reaction."

"So, Doctor McCoy," boomed M'Benga's voice from the doorway, "what have you gotten into now?" He stepped into the room, nodding to Chapel, dark eyes settling on T'Phol for an instant before he moved to McCoy. He ran a scanner over McCoy's chest and back.

McCoy glared. "Who called you, Geoff?"

"The Captain. He's still busy with the decontamination, but he wanted to be sure you made it to Sickbay." He palmed the scanner. "Aside from your lungs, there's quite a bit of irritation in your eyes. Did you get some drops to go with your epinephrine?" He moved to the medicine cabinet and selected a bottle.

"Look up," M'Benga ordered and administered a drop to each eye. "Here, take the bottle. Use them again if you need them." He looked speculatively at McCoy. "Is your throat sore? I think you would be better off staying here where we can monitor you."

McCoy shook his arm and pointed to his wrist. "I am monitored."

"That's not the same, and you know it."

"It will have to do."

"You are a stubborn man," M'Benga said, crossing his arms. "Compromise? I'll make you a deal."

"What kind of deal?"

"Let me put you on the biobed for a thorough scan and blood panel." He glanced at T'Phol. "Then promise you won't stay by yourself for a few hours."

McCoy scowled.

"Come on, Doctor McCoy," M'Benga said quietly. "Work with me here. You know I'm right."

McCoy capitulated. "Fine. Let's get it over with."

"Thank you. Nurse, would you prepare for a full panel? After you," he said to McCoy, sweeping his arm toward the treatment room. McCoy looked at T'Phol.

"I will wait," she told him quickly. McCoy turned and followed Chapel. T'Phol waited for McCoy to leave, then looked at M'Benga. He met her eyes evenly.

"Hello, Miss Grayson. I am pleased to see you're looking well."

T'Phol inclined her head slightly. "Doctor M'Benga. I did not know you were aboard the Enterprise."

"I was assigned here three years ago."

T'Phol broke eye contact first. He moved a step toward her. "I hope you have not harbored hard feelings from our last meeting," he said mildly.

'It is not logical to hold a grudge, Doctor M'Benga."

"Perhaps. Occasionally we do things that are not logical, wouldn't you agree?"

"Perhaps."

Chapel stuck her head around the corner. "We're ready, Doctor."

M'Benga studied her a minute more. She finally looked up. "Logical or not, your patient is waiting."

"Yes," he said. "I would appreciate a chance to talk with you later."

T'Phol made no reply. He turned on his heel and walked quickly to the treatment room.

* * *

McCoy lay quietly as M'Benga ran his tests. He was a little drowsy, the emotionally charged, sleepless night and then the events of the afternoon were catching up. M'Benga kept a running commentary of his findings and test results. McCoy, no longer a first year med student, listened to the important parts. M'Benga was a teacher, he thought idly. He closed his eyes.

"You do have quite a bit of throat irritation. You might not be talking much later. I'm administering a corticosteroid for the pneunomitis. It's not significant now. Let's keep it that way. And I want you to take a breathing treatment before I let you go." He turned to Chapel. "Christine, you can go now. I'll get the nebulizer and get that started." He got the tubing and mask hooked up and slipped it on McCoy's face. The mist started flowing. M'Benga pulled a stool next to the bed and sat, watching McCoy's slow and steady breathing for a minute of two. Then he leaned in closer, speaking quietly.

"Leonard, did you know you've lost four pounds since your last exam?"

McCoy opened an eye. "No," he said from behind the mask.

"In old style measurements, at five feet ten, slight frame, you should weigh between one forty-five and one sixty, give or take a pound or two either way. You're below one thirty-four now. I think that's a little _too_ thin. You have actually lost a little since the xenopolycythemia."

McCoy closed his eye, giving a little shrug. "I'm naturally skinny."

"Yes. You also skip meals and drink too much coffee, and a portion of your calories are empty nutritionally." M'Benga told himself to stop, but somehow the rest of his sentence came out of his mouth anyway. "Jim Beam is not a substitute for a meal."

To his surprise, McCoy did not react at all. The treatment emptied and he sat up, pulling the mask from his face. M'Benga took it wordlessly, laying it aside. The two men looked at each other a little warily.

"I've kept my part of the bargain," McCoy said. "Are we done?"

"Almost," M'Benga answered. "With the reminder that I want you to have company with you this evening. Rest. Consider yourself off duty for tomorrow. We will continue the monitor through the night, but I am in agreement that I don't expect an episode. And," he added pointedly, "please eat something. In addition, we need to check on the pneumonitis every day for a few days. You don't need that to progress to ARDS or bronchiolitis obliterans while we weren't watching." He helped McCoy step down from the biobed.

"Yeah, OK." McCoy started to step away, but M'Benga laid a hand on his arm. McCoy shook his head. "Not now, Geoff. Please don't make me argue with you, I'm almost drained."

M'Benga stepped back and let him go without further comment, following him through the door. T'Phol was waiting. M'Benga addressed her. "Miss Grayson, would you like the unenviable position of keeping an eye on him for a while? I'd feel better knowing someone was nearby and making him rest and behave."

"Yes. Assuming Doctor McCoy is agreeable to the notion," T'Phol said.

"What, you don't trust me?"

"No," said M'Benga and Chapel together. Chapel smiled ruefully.

"OK, I give up," McCoy said. "Come on, T'Phol. Seems you're stuck with me."


	10. Chapter 10

T'Phol followed McCoy into the corridor. Once they were away from Sickbay, he turned to her, embarrassed.

"Look, you really don't have to babysit. I'll be fine, I have the epi and the monitor, and even Doctor M'Benga, who is caution personified, admitted that he doesn't expect any complications."

"I promised." She paused. "So did you."

"So we did. All right. What I'm going to do now is have a quick shower and change. I can still smell that smoke. Nasty stuff. I can't believe I stood there like an idiot and breathed it. I even said I'd be sorry. Remind me next time to listen to my own advice."

He led the way to his quarters and ushered her inside, glad he had tidied earlier. He gestured to the seating area in the alcove and hurried through the shower, throwing on sweatpants and a t-shirt. When he returned, barefoot and damp, T'Phol was intently studying a framed picture from his desk. He looked over her shoulder, smiling a bit.

"Nice picture, isn't it? That is my daughter, Johanna. She was almost five years old then. She's grown now."

T'Phol gently replaced the frame on the desk. "I did not mean to pry. She is a beautiful child. And you look young and happy."

"I was." His smile faded. "That was almost seventeen years ago. A lot of water has passed under the bridge since then." He reached past her and laid the epinephrine hypo on the desk. "Here's the magic potion."

"You are full of idiomatic phrases, Doctor." T'Phol indicated another photo. "This is your family? The little boy is you?"

"Yes. My parents and Grandma Lydie. You know, the one who made good cornbread. And our dogs, Rambler and Bel. I was about ten years old." His eyes softened with a smile.

"Are your parents still living?"

McCoy sat in the other chair, stretching his legs out. "No," he said slowly, face darkening. "Daddy died years ago, I had just finished medical school. Mama passed a little before I joined the Enterprise. Johanna is all the family I have left except for an aunt and uncle and a few cousins. The other picture is her graduating from nursing school. That was a few months ago." He cleared his throat, wincing a bit.

"You are getting hoarse," observed T'Phol. "Let me get you something to drink. What would be soothing?"

"Jack and honey with lemon," McCoy said.

"Do you have the ingredients?"

"Order a hot lemon tea, extra sweet with honey. The beverage card is beside the slot. The bottle of Jack Daniel's is in that cabinet. There is a shot glass in there, too."

T'Phol found the card and requested two teas from the synthesizer and brought the bottle and glass, setting both in front of him. She declined his offer to share. He poured from the bottle, drinking one shot right away, then poured another. He recapped the bottle, moving it away. He sipped the hot tea, and when the level dropped enough he poured the second shot into the cup. After finishing, he leaned back, closing his eyes. T'Phol sipped her own tea, quiet but watchful.

When she finished she decided to rouse him. "Doctor McCoy. Come, lie down."

"I wasn't asleep." He opened his eyes and sat up as if to prove it.

"Perhaps you should be. I can hear you just as well from either location, and I believe rest was part of Doctor M'Benga's prescription."

McCoy realized he was indeed near exhaustion, more tired than he could remember being in a long time. He looked at T'Phol and couldn't help but feel a bit foolish. "So you're gonna just sit and watch me nap?"

"If it makes you more comfortable, I will not look."

He laughed hoarsely, shaking his head a little at her brand of inescapable logic, and padded over to his bunk, stretching out on top. He was sleeping within a minute or two. When his breathing evened and she was sure he was asleep, she got up and pulled the coverlet over him and dimmed the lighting. She was just sitting down when the door chimed. She hurried to answer but McCoy did not stir.

She opened the door and was not surprised to find Kirk standing on the other side. She put a finger to her lips and motioned him in.

Kirk could see the doctor's sleeping form. "I stopped by Sickbay first," Kirk said softly. "They told me he was his usual terrible patient self, refusing to stay in Sickbay, and you are his caretaker for a while. How is he?"

"He is beginning to lose his voice, which was expected, I believe. He had a hot drink and has just gone to bed, although not without protest," T'Phol answered. "He is sleeping now. I shall observe him very carefully for signs of distress. I have the epinephrine hypo, should it be needed."

Kirk looked up at the tall Vulcan, her concern was palpable and genuine. "Well, it seems Bones is in good hands," he said. "When he wakes up, he's going to want to know what's going on. Tell him the decontamination is finished and no one else was exposed. Kelan is fine, just antisocial, and he tells me that defkato is very addictive for Andorians. So Vartheb is an extremely unhappy junkie at the moment. Scotty is making him a sealed chamber with controlled airflow so he can continue to enjoy his libation without poisoning the entire deck. And Vartheb says under no circumstance does he ever want to lay eyes on Doctor McCoy again."

T'Phol's eyebrow rose. "I shall relay that when he awakens."

"Thank you, Miss Grayson. I'll stop back by Sickbay and give Doctor M'Benga your report."

"He sent you?"

"Yes and no. Doctor McCoy is my friend."

"Of course. I was not complaining."

"Tell Bones I will see him tomorrow. Take care of him."

"I shall do my utmost best."

Kirk laughed, softly. "That's what we all say." He looked at McCoy affectionately, shaking his head. "He makes that a hard job, sometimes."

After Kirk left, T'Phol stood at McCoy's bedside, listening carefully. His breathing was regular and deep, and other than an occasional small hitch nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Her eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness. She studied his features for a while. In sleep he looked younger and vulnerable, more like the young father in the photo. After a few minutes, she took a seat at his desk, picking up the photo again. They were both looking into the camera lens, smiling, faces pressed together, a breeze ruffling their hair. His hair was longer then, and wavy, his daughter was crowned with very blond, curly ringlets. They did not resemble each other much. His features were open and relaxed, and he was wearing a wedding band, now absent, as well as the other ring he still wore. She set the picture down in its place, picking up the older family photo. McCoy grinned shyly from between his mother and grandmother, his hair uncombed and unruly. A brown spotted hound was laying at his feet, a handsome German Shepherd Dog sitting alertly beside his father.

Eventually she moved her chair a little closer to his bunk. In her head she practiced scores, seeing the notes flow by, but always listening to his breathing in the background. He turned and moaned a few times, but then settled down again. The afternoon waned into evening.

* * *

McCoy woke slowly. His throat hurt and he could hear a few wheezing rales inside his chest. He opened his eyes a little. T'Phol had moved her chair into his view. She was sitting quietly, eyes closed but he knew she wasn't asleep. He could see her eyes moving under the lids, and her fingers twitched a bit in rhythm and pattern. Playing air piano, he suddenly realized. He studied her profile for a minute from under his lashes. Her features were clean boned with strong, elegant lines, a straight nose adorned with a faint smattering of freckles, high cheekbones and delicately pointed ears. Her thick dark auburn hair was mostly captured into a loose braid. The escaping tendrils waved and curled in their own fashion. He watched her hands, very long and strong looking fingers, but graceful, with closely trimmed nails and a prominent ulnar styloid process highlighting thin wrists and sleek, muscular forearms. She did not look much like Spock, but he thought they shared quite a few mannerisms.

She suddenly opened her eyes and turned toward him. "You are awake," she said. "How do you feel?"

He experimentally cleared his throat. "I don't know. How long have I slept?" It came out mostly as a croak.

T'Phol checked her internal clock. "Five hours, thirty-eight minutes. It is now almost twenty-one hundred hours."

He coughed and sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. T'Phol rose to assist, but he waved her off. "I'm OK," he said. He went to the bathroom, washed, splashed his face, and drank some water. When he finished, T'Phol was moving her chair back into position. He sat, toying with the monitor on his wrist for a minute, feeling awkward. It had been a long time since he woke up to another person in his room.

"Captain Kirk stopped by while you were sleeping," T'Phol said. "He left messages. The decontamination process was completed without incident and with no further injuries. Kelan indicates that defkato is a highly addictive substance and Vartheb is an addict. Mister Scott is preparing a safe delivery method so he can continue to use the drug without compromising the safety of the crew. Vartheb is not interested in talking to you again. Captain Kirk will see you tomorrow."

"An addict?" McCoy's brow furrowed as he thought. "Addicted, but sent to work as half of a team on a fairly high profile scientific project. He and Kelan apparently do not like each other or get along too well."

"It does seem like an odd pairing on the surface."

"Yes. Yes it does."

"T'Phol leaned forward. "Why do you think they are staying hidden from view? Are all Andorians so private?"

McCoy shook his head. "I don't know. Except for the Babel conference, I haven't had a lot of contact with Andorians. Maybe they just don't like us. They are a warrior people despite their mild mannerisms and soft speech. There are several races they are not too fond of, including Tellarites and Vulcans. I guess Vartheb is feeding his addiction. Kelan..." He shrugged.

"I wonder what sort of scientific equipment they had to transport themselves to a rather well established research site. Most translating work is done by computer. It seems tapes would have sufficed. Any necessary excavation supplies would already be available planet-side. They brought a great number of boxes on board."

McCoy cocked a brow at her. "Well, _you_ brought some special equipment on board, too."

"Yes. How many Moog synthesizers do you suppose are on Aminta II?"

"Point taken." He paused. "Anything that is beamed aboard undergoes a screening process. Dangerous items would have been flagged and identified." He cleared his throat.

They looked across the desk at each other, unanswered questions hanging in the air.

T'Phol suddenly stood. "Does the synthesizer in here deliver food as well as tea? I am hungry. Where are the rest of your food cards?"

"Look on the shelf."

"What would you like? Is chicken soup acceptable?"

He nodded unenthusiastically She programmed the soup and set it in front of him. She got vegetable soup with bread and more tea. Wordlessly she handed him a hot tea as well. He found after the initial couple of painful swallows that he could finish without too much trouble, so he ate and then drank the hot tea, feeling a little soothed.

"She finished and got another dish for each of them, setting his in front of him.

"Pudding?" The corner of his moth drew down in a frown.

"Another thing that should be easy for you to swallow."

He looked at her and then at the pudding, pushing it away. "You heard Doctor M'Benga griping about my weight, didn't you?"

T'Phol raised an eyebrow. "Even my Vulcan ears cannot hear through walls. Also I do not intentionally listen to private conversations. It is obvious that you could not have not eaten since at least the midday meal, however you may colloquially refer to it." She spooned a bite with a little more vigor than necessary. "You," she said, pointing her spoon at his midsection, "are quite thin. Do not blame me for noticing. The pudding is soft and easily swallowed. You should eat it."

McCoy stared at her, then pulled the bowl back in front of him, taking a bite. "I call the midday meal lunch, usually. Grandma called it dinner. You coulda at least ordered chocolate."

"I shall file that information for future reference."

They finished eating in a silence that felt oddly companionable, and to McCoy somehow familiar. T'Phol picked up the used dishes and fed them into the recycler. She turned to find him staring at her. She met his eyes, neither looked away for a long moment. Finally McCoy laid his hands face up on the desk.

"May I see your hands?" he asked.

T'Phol quirked an eyebrow, but sat and placed her hands on the desk, also palm up. McCoy looked at them for a moment, then reached across with a questioning look. She nodded permission, so he took one hand in his, gently manipulating her carpals and metacarpals, rotating her wrist, and feeling her fingertips.. She got the idea he was actually seeing the inner structure in action. He did the same with her other hand. "Here, he said, "squeeze my hands."

She did, lightly.

"No, really squeeze." He increased pressure.

"I will hurt you."

"Well, then squeeze until I scream."

She tightened her grip quite a lot. His eyes got a little wide, so she eased up. He pulled away, holding his hand with extended fingers. She matched him. His hands were large for his size. Their hands were about the same, but her fingers were a little longer.

"How far is your reach?" she asked.

"What?"

She demonstrated, spreading her fingers wide.

"Oh." McCoy splayed his fingers as far as he could. She spread hers, easily out-distancing his by quite a bit.

"I reach an eleventh without rolling." At his blank look, she added, "An eleventh is an octave plus three keys. Rolling is this motion," and she demonstrated. "Listz and Rachmaninov could reach a thirteenth.

"Not surprising. Yours have adapted through years of intense training starting when you were very young. If I started playing today, mine might change some, but never to that extent. Your wrists and hands are very muscular, very strong, even your fingers. I expected callus on your fingertips, but there aren't any. The skin is hard on your left fingers, though, I can feel that."

"The left hand is my playing hand for strings. Some violinists do have calluses, but they are more common on guitarists. And perhaps surgeons? You have some."

"Will you play for me again?"

"That did not go so well last time," she said.

"Only that one," he said. "Anything else is fine."

She studied his face a moment. Then she stood. "I shall do so if you promise to stop talking so much, your voice is getting worse."

His slow smile spread into a real grin. "That's just an excuse. You really just want me to shut up."

"That is correct. Would you accompany me to my quarters? I will play either Moog or violin. The piano seems to attract a crowd."

He put on a pair of slippers and pulled a scrub over his t-shirt. T'Phol grabbed the epi pen from his desk on the way out.


	11. Chapter 11

T'Phol's cabin was smaller than McCoy's with one undivided area. The Moog had been moved to a table of its own, taking up a lot of the free space. There was an interesting spiral shaped glass-like sculpture in a stand on her desk. It was about a foot in diameter. McCoy paused to look at it for a long time, drawn to the swirling design. As he watched, he could see colors and patterns seem to shift in its depths.

"What is this? It looks like a galaxy."

"It is an Anterean Aura-Lumina. Sometimes they are called a starry night. Sit, and I will demonstrate."

She took her violin out of its case and dimmed the room lighting, handing the sculpture to him. "You need to hold it." It was not as heavy as he expected and he felt an odd vibration, like the thing was thrumming in his hands. T'Phol played a scale and he felt the humming change and the lights within it brightened and moved. She played a different scale and the colors shifted. He thought he could feel the vibrations responding to the change in pitch.

"Can you feel it? Some people are more receptive than others. It is filled with luminescent organisms that respond to both bio-activity and frequency manipulation in their environment by the release of light and restrained sympathetic resonance. The more complex the stimuli, the more complex the response. It is one way to both feel and see music. I shall now play some Vivaldi for you and you can experience it for yourself."

He sat mesmerized as the sweet and true tones filled the cabin and the device glowed and seemed to pulse in his hands, the colors dancing and swirling in intricate pattern. T'Phol was intrigued by his fascination and finished the entire Spring movement from The Four Seasons. He stared long after the last note finished, feeling the effect fade until it was quiet again. He looked up at T'Phol, awed. "Incredible. Talk about addictive."

She gently removed the sculpture from his hands and set it back in its holder. It felt very warm, almost hot where he had been touching it. "I have never seen it so active. It seems to be quite responsive to you, or you to it. Not everyone can interact so easily. These also become conditioned to their specific stimuli. For instance, this one 'knows' my violin. It would not be nearly so reactive to a different instrument, say a horn or piano, or even a viola."

"Is that how you perceive music in your brain? Colors and patterns? Like the starry night"

"Not exactly." Her eyes became distant, as if she was searching within. "Perhaps similarly, but my colors and patterns have no name except those inside my head." She looked at him and shook her head. "I cannot explain. And I have tried. You are talking too much. I will get you some more tea."

She did so, setting the cup in front of him. He took a sip. "Please continue playing, if you're not tired. How many hours do you practice every day?"

"For something completely new, on an individual piece, perhaps three or four hours at the beginning. Some of that will be with my fingers and some with my mind. My actual practice time varies widely. Sometimes I spend ten hours and sometimes two." She took up the violin again. "Here is Mozart."

McCoy found himself watching her hands, thinking of the long hours in study and practice that enabled those strong fingers to move with such fluid ease over the strings. She played several short pieces before stopping.

"That was a mixture from different Mozart violin sonatas."

"You must do the same thing over and over during practice. Do you ever get tired of playing them? Even for an audience?"

"There are pieces that I enjoy performing more than others. But practice does not mean that I play the entire piece over and over. I might only work on one place. Perhaps just a few bars that I repeat again and again until I find the sound I want. Even rehearsal with an orchestra follows the same routine. The conductor might repeat the same passage to adjust one section or another. I have seldom run through the entire set at once when rehearsing as the guest artist."

"So which is your favorite instrument to play in concert? Violin or piano? Or the glass thing?"

"The glass armonica is just an oddity. Many things are written for or can be adapted to both violin and piano. Sometimes it is a hard decision. Some pieces I have performed on both instruments at different times and places. Some I prefer one or the other. My favorite piano performance is the Brahms Concerto Number One that I did last night in the rec room. That was only the second movement, which I also abbreviated somewhat. If you have never heard the entire work with orchestra, you should. If you search your entertainment history library videos, you will probably find my recording made with the Vienna Symphony at Musikverein, which in my opinion is the finest concert hall on Earth. It is my magnum opus, and the last recording made by Polthea of Altaire. "

She laid the violin aside and turned to the Moog.

"Here is some more Mozart. This is Sonata Number Twenty-one in E Minor. I recorded piano and violin and combined them afterward." They both listened in silence. When it finished McCoy sighed.

"That felt sad," he commented.

"Mozart wrote it in Paris after his mother died. It is a tragic story. Her name was Anna Maria. She traveled to Paris with her son, who was not well received by the Paris nobility. She sickened and died there, and his father blamed Mozart for her death." T'Phol paused for a moment, picking at a fingernail. "Mozart was a child prodigy who played both violin and piano. He began composing at four years old. His father was a composer and music teacher who paraded him around the royalty in Europe with the expectation of making the family fortune. He and his father had constant disagreements throughout their lives. He died early, at thirty-five. Imagine if he had lived twice that age, the works we would have..."

McCoy's penetrating gaze was fully focused on her as she spoke. "You clearly identify with him."

"We share some- similarities." She did not look at him. He waited. She returned her violin to its case before speaking.

"Did you know the Latin root word for prodigy means monster?"

McCoy shook his head.

"Did you know that there are more music and mathematical prodigies than other types? And in Humans there are genetic links between prodigy and spectrum dysfunction and these often overlap in the individual? Most child prodigies do not excel in their specialty in adult life. In addition, almost all report feeling out of place with peers, particularly as children, but often as adults." She paused a minute. "Human prodigies number approximately one in eight million at any specified time."

She did look at him then, her eyes very green. "What they do not tell you in the rule book is one day you will no longer be a prodigy. It will not matter how talented you are or how hard you have worked. You will no longer be a child. The circus fanfare surrounding you will end. It is difficult to overcome such a dubious legacy. That was true hundreds of years ago, and still today. Mozart, Bellini, Chopin, Liszt, Mendelssohn, Je'Kaffini of Altaire, Othari Simgladmid, all were musical prodigies who prevailed enough to make their mark."

"And you?"

"Not in their sense, no. But compared to many others like myself, I am fortunate. I have been able to continue playing music, which is the only thing I know. I could have a chair with any one of several orchestras, on Earth and off. I am invited with some regularity to make appearances as a guest artist, and I continue to compose and record. But my name will never be said alongside theirs. When I was young, I was foolish enough to believe that was my future. Now I understand the illusion of novelty versus the reality of true greatness. It is novelty when a seven year old can play near the level of the most experienced and professional adults. When one is twenty, it is not the same. At that point, the novelty is gone and you _are_ an experienced adult. Then you are in the same league with all the other experienced professionals. It is a great humbler." She looked away. "It was difficult losing prodigy status and at the same time a huge relief."

"Tell me."

"We could be here the rest of the night. It is now past midnight. I fear it would be too tiring for you."

"I've had a long nap," McCoy said.. "I want to hear about your childhood. Tell me about your parents. Tell me about being a prodigy. Tell me about not being a prodigy any more."

T'Phol pulled a chair close and grabbed a blanket from the foot of her bunk."Why don't you lie down? Your ears will work just as well." She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and sat, drawing up her legs and wrapping her arms around her knees. McCoy wondered if she was cold, or if the blanket was a fortress. He got up and moved to her bunk, arranging pillows behind his back.

"Where would you like me to begin?"

"Start with Sybok."

"My father is older than Spock by several years. Sybok would have been head of the family after Sarek and T'Pau.. He went to the Vulcan Science Academy, just as Grandfather insisted. But he was expelled after a brief time.

"Sybok is a renegade. He adopted the rogue philosophy of living not by logic, but by embracing and experiencing every emotion. That met with heavy disapproval while it was only him, but then he began to recruit others and became disruptive and antagonistic. So T'Pau banished him. It was what he wanted."

"Experiencing and accepting emotion is not a bad thing, T'Phol."

"Perhaps not for Humans. Maybe not even for Vulcans. But his kind of emotional release is- different. It is not healthy expression. It is more like rape, even if at the end you think it is what you desired all along. Does it bring emotions to the surface? Yes, but brutally. It tears you from the inside and leaves jagged edges. And the fear comes back." Although her voice was calm and unwavering, her eyes reflected pain. "At the same time, he is charismatic. His psi rating is higher than Spock's, and much more than Sarek's. The power he wields is seductive. His followers love him. They are very loyal."

"He used this power on you," McCoy said quietly. He shuddered.

"Of course. It is what he is." She drew her blanket closer about her before continuing.

"My mother is from Earth. She met Sybok on Altaire Six. I do not know the particulars or why they decided I should be born. I have thought perhaps my father wanted to continue his legacy, but I must have been a disappointment. After all that effort, instead of remarkable psi ability I demonstrated musical talent. At any rate, he left and Mother returned to Earth with me."

"That must have been a good thing, escaping his mental domination."

"I do not know how he might have reacted with a child. You do not understand his character. He is warm and in many ways comforting. He truly believes that facing fear frees you forever." She stirred uneasily. "I went to him as a teenager for a while on Mitera. I might have stayed with him longer, but I was not really wanted there. I was out of place. Plus he began to pass into true madness."

"How so?"

"He began his search for God."

"A lot of people search for meaning in life, T'Phol. For some that means looking for something bigger than themselves, something or someone like a god."

"No, you misunderstand." She leaned forward. "My father is not seeking God spiritually. He is looking for God's home, God's address. A place he calls Sha Ka Ree. You would call it Heaven. He began researching it while on one of the border planets. He believes he will eventually establish telepathic contact and be given directions."

McCoy's eyebrow climbed. "So you left. Sounds like a wise move."

"Yes. I went to Vulcan. I was almost fifteen. I have not seen him since."

"Where was your mother?"

T'Phol shrugged. "Earth, I assume."

"You didn't stay with her?"

"I have neither seen nor spoken with her since I left Earth. Specifically, I left in secrecy. She was uncertain of my whereabouts until I returned to Vulcan and Grandfather insisted she be informed."

McCoy frowned. "You ran away?"

"I would not call it that," T'Phol said flatly. "She refused my request to see my father, so I formulated a plan and carried it through."

"You were fourteen. That's running away. I have to admit I am impressed. Obviously you made it there and back. I could not have done it at fourteen. Hell, I couldn't have done it at twenty when I was getting ready to enter medical school"

"Undoubtedly I had more resources and experience at fourteen than you."

"Yes, I'm sure that's true. At that age I was in high school and hoping to get a girlfriend before I was thirty and ancient."

"At fourteen, I was a has-been."

They were both silent for a few minutes. Finally McCoy spoke. "What happened between you and your mother?"

"Nothing specific."

"No?" McCoy leaned up on his elbow. "You ran away from home as a child and haven't seen her since. That doesn't sound like typical teen angst and unrest to me. In fact, that doesn't sound like a typical mother, either." He said it gently, but he saw the sting pass through T'Phol's face. He thought he had pushed too hard and she was going to shut down, but eventually she resumed talking, taking up her story from an earlier point.

"My mother was a competent pianist on an amateur level. I cannot remember this, but when I was just over one year old I played one of the pieces she had been practicing. I could not reach all the keys of course. So I improvised.

"She taught me herself for the first months. Then I had teachers and instruction on an advanced level. And testing." She looked down. "Lots of testing. It is how I discovered that not everyone can see music.

"When I was three, I was giving performances on the local level. At five I began composing. When I was six we moved to New York City. Things accelerated there. Two different instructors on piano and violin. Lessons every day. Practice. Performance. I did my first appearance at Carnegie Hall at age eight on violin. Nine on piano."

She looked back at McCoy. "Do you understand compulsion? Not only external, but internal." She touched her temple. "Something in here drove me. Some experts call it a rage. Not an anger, but an undeniable drive to learn. I had a Rage. I did not need further external compulsion. I did not need to be kept captive in the studio for hours, isolated from everything except the music, or to be largely separated from my Vulcan family and heritage. In fact, I believe my Vulcan half saved me when I was a child. That, and the few weeks I got to spend with Amanda and Sarek once a year.

"I told you Mozart was exhibited amongst royalty to make a name and fortune for his family. He must have resented his father horribly. It is awful, being on display like a trained seal in a circus. As an adult, Wolfgang Amadeus was completely tactless, and impulsive and childish. Mendelssohn was aloof and ill tempered. Chopin died young, alone and bitter. Liszt was an alcoholic who struggled with depression his entire life. Many prodigies lack socialization. Do you know why?" Although her expression did not change, her voice took on a flat and spiritless tone as she continued.

"There is no time for living. There is nothing but instruction and work and performance and getting ready for more performing. You live in an adult world and everyone you know is an adult. You are taught by adults, you perform for adults, you go to adult receptions on your behalf where you meet various benefactors and directors and then leave early because it is past bed time. There are no other people your age around you. And even if there were, there is no common frame of reference. I knew nothing about playing with dolls or having a tea party or pretending to be a space pirate or a princess or whatever it is that normal children do. They would have known nothing about fingering variations for Liszt's Transcendental Etude. What I really wanted was a pet. A bird, especially. Of course, that was not possible. There was not enough time."

T'Phol got up, her blanket dropping unnoticed from her shoulders. McCoy could see the tendons in her neck standing out, her shoulders tense. She paced to the wall and stood with her back angled to him. He sat up slowly and stood, waiting.

"I had a Rage, yes, that controlled my life to a great extent," T'Phol said to the bulkhead. "That is a part of me, who I was and what I am. But I also had a mother who was not a good steward of her child's psyche. Mother did not want a daughter. She liked having a prodigy, and _she_ basked in the attention of it all.

"When I was about thirteen I started getting tall and ungainly, truly almost overnight. My feet were too big, my hands were too big, nothing fit right. I was an awkward and very unattractive adolescent. By the time I reached fourteen, I was over six feet tall. I no longer looked like a child. The circus was drawing to a close. I was glad. Mother knew it. We had terrible arguments during that last year."

McCoy heard her swallow audibly. He took a step closer. She continued, her voice pitched low, barely above a whisper.

"When you were fourteen you were planning how to get your first kiss. I was plotting my escape. And hoping I would not have to commit harm to get away. As it turned out she never reported I was missing. So executing my plan was far easier than I expected. Polthea of Altaire ceased to exist, except as entombed in video."

She turned around to meet his eyes, taking a deep breath. "You asked to hear this. It is not a pretty story, and I am neither ashamed nor proud. I began healing and making some progress learning to be a real person when I returned to Vulcan, but here is still plenty of room for more of both. It has been fifteen years since I moved to Grandfather's house. He and Gram gave me room and time. And made sure I got therapy and training in the Vulcan way. I did not resume my career until I was nineteen. I waited almost too long. But I have managed."

He wanted to touch her, to reach out, but something made him hold back. Compulsive and destructive behaviors were subjects that had been on his mind a lot in recent days. He was not sure he could talk about healing when his own wounds were so newly re-opened.

T'Phol seemed to sense his reserve. She looked at the floor. "I did not intend to go into this much detail, Doctor McCoy. I am sure it was much more than you expected or wanted to hear."

"No. It's not that." he said quickly. "I wanted your story, and I still want more. But not tonight. Sharing that was hard. I feel raw myself." He paused, closing his eyes. "What I was actually thinking," he added quietly, "is that I would like to wrap you in my arms and tell you it's OK, that everything is gonna be all right, but right now you are too defenseless and vulnerable. I would never try to take advantage of that."

He heard her take a breath and release it. When she spoke, her voice had a piercing, hard undertone. "That, Doctor, is a double sided blade. Suppose I took advantage of yours?"

"Mine?" He opened his eyes and met her guileless and frank gaze. He could see the heat flaring there.

"Your vulnerability. I am no longer a child. I am _not_ defenseless, nor am I the only one with a past that festers and scabs that eventually peel." Her voice sounded tense, somehow brittle. "I am no more vulnerable than you. Perhaps less." She touched his hand and continued, softer. "Unwittingly I uncovered your wound. I do not know what it is, and you are not ready to tell. But it appears we both can bleed."

"Why are you here?" The question was out before he realized he was asking.

T'Phol raised an eyebrow. "I am here because I assured Doctor M'Benga, Nurse Chapel, and Captain Kirk that I would look after you tonight."

"That's not what I meant."

"Then I am here because I like you and I want to spend time with you. Is that what you are asking? Is it reason enough or hard for you to believe?"

"You don't know me well enough to like me." His voice was hoarse, rough.

"Of course I do." She held out her arms to him and without hesitating he stepped into them not sure which of them needed reassurance more. He did not know how long he stood there drawing strength and comfort from her quiet embrace, but finally she gently drew back.

"I have a proposition. We are both tired and you are ill. I promise I will not take advantage of you tonight. You promise the same. Let us lie together for the remainder of the night and rest. Maybe sleep."

McCoy could not think of an objection, or perhaps he did not want to. Nested against her Vulcan coolness he slept deeply, without dreaming.


	12. Chapter 12

T'Phol slept lightly for an hour or so. Then she was fully awake. McCoy's arm was draped across her, his breath stirring the hair on her neck, his heat comforting and pleasant. She listened to him breathe, gradually relaxing into a meditative but aware state between waking and dreaming. She thought about pain and triumph and redemption. Preconceptions and misconceptions, denial and acceptance. After a time her thoughts wondered into mostly unexplored and uncomfortable territory. She thought of how warm and sure his hands had been when they had held hers, and wondered how the texture of his hair might feel if she moved that little errant strand and ran her fingers through it. She came back to full wakefulness with a start. He was still asleep, but she sensed he would wake soon. She was sure she could hear wheezing during his respiration, but he appeared to be in no distress. She carefully slipped out from underneath his arm and got up, hurrying through the sonic shower and dressing.

McCoy was stirring when she finished. She ordered tea from the synthesizer, sat the cup on the desk and busied herself with the tablet. He sat on the edge of the bunk, rubbing his eyes.

"Good morning," she said. "I believe you prefer coffee?"

"Mornin'. Yes, in a minute." He visited the bathroom. When he emerged he ordered his coffee and sat at the desk, taking a sip before speaking.

"Not just coffee. Black and strong. Good morning." He tested his voice. Although still hoarse, some of the soreness was gone.

"How do you feel?" T'Phol asked, noting his eyes were red and swollen, but his face now had some color rather than the terrible paleness of the day before.

McCoy considered his emotional state and the many replies he might make to that question and opted for a simple physical update. "I forgot the eye drops. Apparently I really need them. Other than that, better." He did not tell her he could hear numerous whistles and crackles when taking a deep breath. His plan was to stop by Sickbay for another breathing treatment even before getting dressed.

He indicated the PADD. "Have you finished planning your stage?"

"Yes. I will need to speak to Mister Scott."

"With all the commotion yesterday we didn't finish the plans, or have our tour. Let's do that this afternoon."

"Are you certain you feel well enough? I can hear wheezing when you breathe."

"Yeah, I think so. I'll get another breathing treatment this morning." He finished his coffee and pushed the empty cup around the desktop with his finger. He did indeed feel better in several ways. He knew her nearness and Vulcan calm had allowed him the relief to sleep without dreaming, but he could hardly mention that without having to admit his own awful frailty. She had told him he wasn't ready for that, and he knew she was right. He wanted her to understand his appreciation for what she had shared with him, and for welcoming him without reservation and despite his quirks, but words seemed inadequate. Finally he simply said, "Thank you."

She nodded, a slight flush creeping onto her cheeks and ears. She met his eyes and he stood, caught in her steady gaze. She got to her feet as well. He felt a connection course between them, a feeling that moved through his body. The tabletop was between them, otherwise he thought he would have taken her into his arms. He looked away, not sure if he was willing the moment to break or never end. T'Phol also lowered her eyes.

The moment passed. He slid his feet into his slippers.

"I'll come around later. Get Cass to contact Scotty for you and arrange a trip to engineering for this afternoon. We'll drop by the bridge, too." McCoy tried for a light tone to counteract the somberness of the moment before.

"All right. I would like to get in some piano time as well. And I hope to see Miss Uhura."

"I believe you are enjoyin' your time on the Enterprise."

T'Phol rewarded him with her unguarded smile. "Your Southern accent is prevalent sometimes. It is an endearing characteristic. Indeed, I am finding my time here is most agreeable."

He smiled. "You can take the boy out of the South..." He picked up the mostly forgotten epinephrine hypo. "I'll take this back to Sickbay and see you later."

* * *

McCoy went straight to Sickbay. Chapel was there with Doctor Sanchez in an otherwise deserted section. Chapel met him at the door to the treatment room.

"It's about time. Your SaO2 is dropping below ninety percent, and the monitor is showing increasing bronchospasm and edema. I was about to come and get you."

"That's why I'm here. I was afraid T'Phol was gonna stick me with this thing." He handed Chapel the hypo. "I can hear all sorts of rales this morning."

"Let's have a look," Sanchez said, sitting him on the biobed, and watching the readings for a minute. He finished the scan and then got a stethoscope from the drawer, warming the bell in his hands. McCoy rolled his eyes. "For such a young guy, you sure are old school, Bill."

"Be nice," he warned as he put it to McCoy's chest, "or I'll put it in the freezer. Now breathe."

Sanchez listened for a minute, then straightened, putting the stethoscope away.

"I do hear the cacophony of wheezes and whistles. Yesterday you got a short acting beta agonist. I'll add a long acting with the corticosteroid. And maybe racemic epinephrine."

"Leave off the epi. It'll make me feel like hell. I have things I want to do this afternoon."

"How about some IV atropine or pantropine?"

"That's hell via a different route."

"I'll defer to you on this. We're still waiting on the full tox report. There are some unknown botanic components in the defkato that are proving hard to isolate. M'Benga thinks it may be less like a tear gas and more like a toxin."

McCoy thought a moment. "Try IM benzatropine instead. If that doesn't bring it around, we'll do a pantropine drip later."And let me know when the toxicology report is ready."

Chapel prepared the nebulizer and McCoy obediently donned the mask and breathed without talking until it was finished. She pushed a hypo against his arm, then instilled some more drops in his eyes causing almost instant relief.

"Thanks," he said. "I forgot my drops last night." He took a deep breath,

"Well, don't forget them tonight. Do I need to tell T'Phol to keep up with them for you?"

"Might not be a bad idea." He looked at Chapel, who seemed amused. "She took her job of looking after me very seriously."

"Someone needs to. I checked your monitor several times last night so I knew where you were. She cares about you."

"Vulcans don't wear their hearts on their sleeves, Christine." He slipped down from the bed.

"No?" Chapel wore the odd little half smirk she usually reserved for times when he was ranting or being thick-headed and obstinate. He expected more commentary, but instead she took a seat at her desk, picking up her PADD and stylus and began working. Sanchez reappeared with a tape which he handed to McCoy.

"Toxicology report, Doctor McCoy. Here's the real trouble maker. One of the components is actually a previously unknown botanical derivative closely resembling methyloropicrin, although fortunately not nearly as strong. Otherwise you'd be dead instead of dealing with some pulmonary edema. The good news, it should respond very well to the long acting beta agonist you just got. I suggest an oral dose of tributamol, too. Hang on and I'll grab it."

McCoy sat on the corner of Chapel's desk. "It just gets better and better. Methyloropicrin is a chemical warfare agent. Why the hell isn't Vartheb dead?"

Sanchez returned with the pill and a glass of water. McCoy swallowed it, draining the entire glass.

"I'll make sure Geoff sees this report when he comes in. He'll look at your chart first thing. He may want you to have another treatment this evening." He passed a scanner quickly over McCoy and studied the readings. "Looking better. Can you feel any improvement?"

McCoy drew a deep breath. "In fact, yes. Except for the headache." He held up his hand. "I'll live with it. Enough drugs already. My insides are jittery."

"Wear the monitor today at least. Do you still have the epi-mini?"

Chapel produced it immediately. McCoy took it with a sigh.

"You have a lot of meds on board. Take it easy. Drink a lot of fluids."

"That's exactly what I'm planning."

* * *

McCoy went to his quarters. He studied the toxicology report for a while, doing his own research into the components and various possible treatment options, finally deciding the course they had taken was on target.

When he finished, he sat in front of the blank terminal for a while. He eventually opened a library link and asked for "Polthea of Altaire concert video" in the entertainment search box. Immediately a list of over a hundred selections populated his screen. He then ordered them chronologically from oldest to newest. The list stared back from the screen. The first one was twenty-seven years old., the last just over sixteen. He left the screen and got a hot tea. He sipped, wondering why he felt like he was invading her privacy. It felt odd to think of her life being documented and available for anyone with computer access. Listening to her recordings did not seem as invasive as watching her former self on display in what she had repeatedly referred to as a circus.

He opened the first one. It was not a professional tape, but a local station's news broadcast of what appeared to be a home video. An impossibly tiny child playing the violin with skill, her small fingers dancing nimbly over the strings. He caught a glimpse of a woman in the background that he assumed might be her mother. He did the math. T'Phol would have been three.

He skipped several. In the next one she was older, but still a small child, on solo piano. It was a more skillful production, well lit with multiple camera angles. Her face was largely hidden by her hair and her fingers looked very small on the keys. Her bow at the end was quick. Her eyes did not meet the camera lens.

He looked for her first performances at Carnegie Hall. They were both slick and professional, and she was performing with a full orchestra. He watched a few minutes of both. Then he skipped another few years. She was taller, her fingers longer, she moved with more assurance and authority. By age twelve her style was growing and maturing. Even his untrained ear could hear subtleties that had been missing before. Still, her eyes rarely met the camera lens and except for glimpses, her long hair curtained her face from view.

Finally he clicked on the last in the list, the Brahms concert in Vienna. He knew that universally adolescents were insecure, including Vulcans, and despite T'Phol's rather disparaging assessment of herself he was not expecting Quasimodo.

The house lights dimmed and she walked onto the stage wearing a long sparkling dark gown that floated away from her body. Her hair was pulled back severely into a bun at the back of her neck. Her arms were bare, thin and sleek. The stage lighting rendered the planes of her face and neck in sharp relief. She bowed to the audience, and greeted the concert mistress and the conductor, shaking their hands. She was taller than either. He saw no sign of awkwardness. Then she took her seat at the piano.

He was unprepared for the intensity of her performance. She was on fire, raw emotionally, passionate. He could see it on her face and in her eyes. She was not hiding or holding back, but giving and taking everything, all unfolding on a summit of expertise and a powerful connection to the piece and the audience. He thought of a phrase he remembered hearing. Without a doubt, this was a world class performance. He had a sudden insight that she already knew it would be Polthea's last appearance.

That concert was almost an hour long. He watched it all, unable to look away. The standing ovation at the end was thunderous and ongoing. She rose, taking several bows. The Maestro kissed her on the cheek, and children not much younger than her brought huge bouquets of flowers to the stage. She looked at the cameras that night, eyes alight with fierce triumph and something he thought might be the culmination of the force she called her Rage.

He flicked the off switch and the screen went dark. He eventually showered and dressed and began his afternoon.


	13. Chapter 13

McCoy found T'Phol in the alcove, wrapped in a cloak and perched on one of the three narrow viewport ledges staring into warp space. Cassady was seated at the desk working on his tablet, periodically checking something on the terminal. McCoy peered over his shoulder. Cassady leaned aside.

"Mister Scott installed the air filter late last night," he said. "So far it's working great. See? No particle escape at all. But just in case, there's a vapor barrier on his door and negative flow, too."

McCoy rocked back on his heels. "Has either one been out today?"

"No, Sir. Quiet as can be. The new protocol is each duty shift will call by intercom to make sure they are still alive or if anything is needed." He looked up at McCoy in mock alarm. "You're not planning to check on them yourself are you, Doc?"

McCoy cursed, causing Cassady to laugh and T'Phol to look in his direction, eyebrow raised.

"Seriously, it's good to see you're recovering," Cassady added. "It was not funny at all."

"No, it wasn't," McCoy agreed. "I never expected to engage in chemical warfare on the guest deck. But it appears I will survive to fight another day."

He walked over to the long narrow viewing port, leaning against the frame. The view was mostly black, with occasional bursts and streaks of light.

"I think the view's prettier when we're out of warp drive," he said. "Then you can see the stars."

"It looks surreal," T'Phol said. She rested her fingers against the transparent aluminum. "I thought it would be cold. But it is only cool."

"There are lots of insulating layers between us and the cold. But it's out there."

"I am not sure I like it. But it is oddly compelling." She shivered, turning away from the window. "You do look better."

"I had another treatment," he admitted. "It helped quite a bit. Are you ready for our tour?"

'Yes. Cass says Mister Scott is expecting us any time. He has forwarded the stage schematics to engineering already." She pointed at the monitor still on his wrist. "Is there still some concern?"

"No, just an over-abundance of caution. Chapel is making me carry the epi, too. Plus they pumped me full of drugs. They are getting entirely too much satisfaction out of this."

"Nurse Chapel said you are a horrible patient. So did Captain Kirk."

"They are exaggerating. Shall we go? You'll be glad you're wrapped up, engineering is cold."

* * *

Scott met them as they entered the tall and spacious main engineering deck. He took McCoy's hand in both of his and shook it fervidly. "Glad to see yer out and about, Len. I saw the final toxicology report a bit ago. Some foul buggers in that stew for sure. But the nasty things will nae bother us again, the filter will take care of that." Then he turned to T'Phol. "Welcome to my department, Miss Grayson. Let me show you around, and then we'll have a look at yer plans."

Scott showed off his immaculate department, the engineering core and the dilithium crystal array, pointing out various features and improvements as they walked around the deck area.

The low hum of the warp drive permeated every plate. T'Phol could feel it through the soles of her feet and almost see it in the air. They concluded their tour at Scott's office. She turned to him. "Your ship sings to you, Mister Scott," she said. "I am sure you can hear her."

"Aye, Lassie. That I can," he said, his eyes growing a little misty. "Yer able to hear it, too?"

"Yes, I feel it. Right now the underlying note is a low B flat on a piano key. Does it change with speed?"

'Aye, and with intermix ratio. But no one has ever put a name on it. I think of it as being pipes rather than piano."

"Do you play the bagpipes?"

Scott blushed. "Just as a hobby. I have a Highland set that belonged to my Great Granda Scott."

"Music as a hobby is a laudable endeavor, Mister Scott. Do not apologize for it," T'Phol replied. "Uhura plays lyre. Spock lyre and piano. You do bagpipes. Doctor McCoy sings. I am sure there are many others with musical talent on board. Someone should organize a show so the crew members can share these abilities."

Scott glanced at McCoy, a little puzzled. "Have ye been singing?"

"I just sing in the shower. Uhura sings for real," McCoy said. "She has a crazy range."

Scott waved them into his office and pulled up the stage plans. He and T'Phol bent over the screen for a few minutes, adjusting a few things to fit either aesthetics or physical dimensions of the space.

"How long will the modifications take to complete?" T'Phol asked, straightening from the monitor.

"Three hours, tops. I can have it ready any time. We already have the baffles replicated."

"We are three days out from Nu Aminta II. Do you think we could plan the concert for tomorrow evening? And can the piano be in place by early afternoon?"

"Aye, that we can. Pending word from the captain, I can have it ready before lunch tomorrow. I have something else to show you." Scott opened a drawer and removed a small object. It was about the size of a golf ball, black with small protrusions that looked almost like fins.

"Is that a radi-drone?" McCoy asked. "It looks different."

"Aye, it is, and it is different. I modified this one to hold a camera instead of a sensor. Watch."

Scott pushed an almost hidden button. A door slid back, revealing a tiny lens. He turned to T'Phol. "Here, Lassie, hold out yer hand." He placed it on her outstretched palm, reaching for the PADD on his desk. He made a few adjustments with the stylus and nodded to her. "All right, here we go."

The sphere rose silently, turned on its axis, and then circled the three of them before rising above their heads and skirting the circumference of the room. It then descended and hovered in front of Scott, who gently plucked it from the air and turned it off.

"Amazing, Mister Scott," T'Phol said. "How does it work?"

"Call me Scotty, girl. New and old technology. Nano anti-grav and ion propulsion on a micro scale. It is programmed by remote control. Here is the result." He turned the screen toward them, and played back the flight video. "We use these things to take close sensor readings or obtain samples where it is too dangerous for a person to go. I thought we could use it in yer concert. I just input this flight a minute ago, so it was crudely done. The result will be much better in actual use with decent programming."

"I have appeared in front of many cameras, but this will be my first experience with floating video."

"We will also have the deck recorders, but they are nae too exciting. Yer show will be broadcast ship-wide on speakers and monitor screens."

"A captive audience." T'Phol's eyes glinted.

"Aye, but a willing one."

"Thank you, Scotty, for spending a great deal of time and effort on this project."

"My pleasure," Scott beamed. "But we are thanking you. We dinnae often get live entertainment on board."

"I shall check with you tomorrow morning."

"That should be fine. We'll start building the stage after first mess."

"We are on the way to the bridge," McCoy said. "I'll remind Jim to give you a call to get things in motion."

"Aye," Scott replied. "Tomorrow then."

* * *

The bridge was calm when they stepped from the lift doors. Uhura greeted them and Kirk swung around in his center seat.

"Bones. Good to see you." He nodded to T'Phol. "Miss Grayson. I see Doctor McCoy is giving you the tour. Welcome to the bridge."

"Thank you, Captain. The Enterprise is remarkable."

"Yes, she is," Kirk said. "The finest ship and crew in the Fleet. I hope you are having a pleasant journey." He looked at McCoy. "How are you, Bones? Recovering?"

"Yeah. Almost like new." He stepped down and stood beside Kirk's chair in his customary place. Uhura smiled and motioned T'Phol over to her communications console, removing the receiver from her ear.

"Did Scotty show you the plans?" she asked.

"Yes. We just came from engineering. He hopes to install in the morning with the concert tomorrow evening, pending executive approval. If you are free later, perhaps you can come to my quarters and we can discuss the program. If you will bring your lyre we can also make time for a lesson."

"That's a date. I'll see you after seventeen hundred hours."

T'Phol looked at the viewscreen, stars flying by. "The view is spectacular."

Kirk heard her and swiveled, a sudden smile on display. "I never get tired of it myself, even if it is computer generated." He rose and walked over to the rail. "Bones says you want to do the concert tomorrow. I'll give Scotty the word. You and Uhura work out the details and I'll have them posted for the crew."

T'Phol nodded. "We will have that ready for you this evening."

Kirk leaned on the railing toward T'Phol and jerked a thumb toward McCoy. "Thank you for looking out for him," he said quietly. "He needs that sometimes. He won't admit it."

"He's also not deaf," McCoy said, resting a hand on Kirk's shoulder. "Enough of that." The captain caught a glimpse of a smile and knew he was good despite his grousing. McCoy's real smile had been less than frequent lately, so it also made Kirk feel good to see one. He grinned back at McCoy.

"I guess we have plenty to do, so maybe we should be at it. See ya, Jim." McCoy moved toward the turbolift, followed by T'Phol. She turned and bowed slightly to Kirk. He nodded back.

"Miss Grayson, Bones. I'll catch you later." McCoy tossed him a small wave as the lift doors closed.

T'Phol looked at McCoy with some amusement. "The captain calls you Bones?"

He rolled his eyes. "He's done that since we met. He's the only one allowed, though. It's short for Sawbones, which is what the job of surgeon used to be several hundred years ago. Cutting off gangrenous limbs and hoping the patient survived. Occasionally they did."

"Gruesome."

"Yes." McCoy sighed. "I have some work to finish in my office. Would you like to come with me? I shouldn't be long. Nurse Chapel is on Alpha shift today. You can keep her distracted from poking me with hypos."

T'Phol hesitated a second, then shook her head. "If you will excuse me, I feel the need for some practice time. Would it be all right if we meet later? Would you like to have supper again?"

"All right. Supper is fine. Let me escort you back to your quarters." The lift deposited them near the guest wing alcove and McCoy walked her to her room. Cass looked up briefly, then back at his tablet, evidently used to seeing them come and go together.

"I'll be back later," he said. "Let Cass know if you need me before then."

"Thank you." She palmed the door and it slid open. He watched the door close behind her, then retreated down the corridor.

* * *

Chapel was nowhere to be seen and M'Benga was in the treatment room when McCoy arrived at Sickbay. McCoy tried to slip unobtrusively into his office, but M'Benga heard him and intercepted, scanner in hand.

"How are you feeling, Leonard?" The scanner whirred into life.

"I'm sure you're gonna tell me," McCoy grumbled.

M'Benga laughed, a deep breathy chortle as he studied the readings. He looked at McCoy and nodded. "Actually, things have improved a great deal since this morning. Edema is almost resolved. Assuming you continue to improve, we might just need one more breathing treatment either tonight or tomorrow."

"Good," McCoy huffed. "I've had a headache most of the day."

M'Benga slipped the scanner in his lab coat pocket. "Why didn't you take something and sleep it off?"

"I have things to do. We are getting ready for the concert tomorrow."

"Ah. While you were supposed to be resting. In fact, why are you here now? I seem to recall taking you off duty for today."

"I'm better. I thought I'd finish some paperwork."

"It can wait until tomorrow." M'Benga folded his arms.

McCoy glared ineffectively. M'Benga was like a still, immovable, calm surface, one where unwarranted dissension simply slid off without adhering. His ordered and quiet personality was in sharp contrast to his chief's irascible and gruff exterior. Balanced by Sanchez's unflagging good humor, McCoy was certain they comprised three parts of the best medical crew anywhere, in Starfleet or out. He sighed. Geoff M'Benga would not be intimidated.

M'Benga realized he had won, so he redirected the conversation.

"You say there will be a concert tomorrow?"

"That's what we're working up now," McCoy said. "Tomorrow evening in the main mess. Scotty is building a stage. T'Phol and Uhura are planning the particulars tonight."

M'Benga studied McCoy's face impassively. 'I am glad to see your enthusiasm for the project," he said carefully. " How are you and T'Phol getting on? I hope I wasn't remiss in suggesting she might sit with you for a while last night."

"No. It was all right. It worked out fine." McCoy was also careful in his reply.

"Good. I'll look forward to the concert." M'Benga paused. Finally he said, "If you feel wheezy, come by before bed and get another treatment. Otherwise, I'll see you tomorrow."

McCoy had an idea that was not what M'Benga had started to say at all, but he let it drop. So instead of working in his office he went back to his quarters. He stretched out on his bed, thinking he might have a quick nap. His mind refused to cooperate with his intentions, and the headache that had hung on the fringes all day was threatening to emerge with potency. He found himself mulling over the nature of compulsion, and how closely it could be tied with obsession. He thought about a child being constrained toward a goal through pernicious design. As a physician, he had seen all sorts of injuries that people afflicted upon one another, both physical and mental. It seemed to him the most horrifying and evil of all must be the betrayal of a child by a parent.

His own childhood seemed quaint and uneventful by comparison. He had grown up in an extended family near Conyers, Georgia. David and Ellen McCoy had been quiet, hard working people, and although neither was particularly demonstrative they were both proud of their only child, who came to them late in life. McCoy thought his parents were often puzzled by the son who was so unlike either of them. The three of them shared the family farmhouse with his father's grandpa, John McCoy, and David's mother, Lydie Casey McCoy. Lydie's husband, John Junior, had been killed in an accident before Leonard was born, but he remembered his Great-Grandpa very well. John Senior was an Old Southern Baptist preacher cut from ancient cloth, a purveyor of Hellfire and Brimstone, a relic in a time of much more refined and subtle spiritual leanings. McCoy had been both frightened and fascinated by Grandpa John. They shared the same startling blue eyes and thick brown hair that offered hints of red in the sunshine, and they both blushed easily, but the preacher had been a stout, burly man in his youth and his great-grandson had always been small and thin. Common coloring and the tendency toward dissension were the only things they shared. Leonard was an early reader, intellectually advanced beyond his age, a dreamer, thoughtful, questioning, and somewhat argumentative as well. Neither the old man nor the young boy refrained from expressing their respective opinions, resulting in disagreements which often turned into arguments ending with declarations of despotism and tyranny, blasphemy and eternal damnation. These outbursts were often accompanied by tears from both the participants and bystanders. John insisted the family attend church on Sundays, a requirement that Leonard resented mightily. Their ongoing conflict resulted in Sunday mornings that were filled with rebellion, discord, and strife. Grandpa John died when McCoy was nine. He remembered being torn over how he should have felt about that, so his undeniable feeling of relief was heavily colored by guilt. His life became less combative and more tranquil, and he could skip the dreaded weekly church ordeal, but in some perverse way he missed their animated and angry confrontations.

His father was a quiet, reserved man who yearned for simplicity and tended to be distant and introspective. He was a wood worker and furniture maker, a good one whose work was constantly in demand. He had a workshop, large, well ordered, and staffed with several assistants where he turned out pieces with beautifully rendered craftsmanship. David McCoy marveled at his precocious and outspoken son who could read by age three and who observed, questioned and formed opinions on everything. Not particularly well read himself, he made sure there were plenty of books in the home to feed his son's thirst. He was much more at home being outdoors, so he took Leonard fishing, hiking, and camping, and they bonded over frying fish and wood smoke. He would have taken the boy bow hunting as well but Leonard flatly refused to harm another creature, a view bolstered by his mother's opposition to hunting.

Ellen McCoy was gentle and soft spoken, a shy woman, almost withdrawn, who eschewed social gatherings and never discussed her personal feelings aloud. McCoy could not remember hearing her voice ever raised in anger, even when her husband brought wild game to the table. Her great passion was animals. A veterinarian herself, she worked with a local clinic and helped with rehabilitating wild things. There was a constant parade of creatures through their home, motherless babies to hand feed and birds and various beasts who needed mending. By the time he was ten, Leonard could splint broken wings, clean wounds, and apply dressings with skill. She also kept pets of her own. They always had a dog or two, and a chicken coop. The barn had a small colony of rescued semi-feral cats, spayed and neutered, housed and fed, but not too approachable. The house had a portly tuxedo cat named Grady who lived to ancient old age. The barn also housed two paint riding horses, Rhett and Scarlett, Annabelle Lee, the bay mule who thought she was a dog, and Shadowfax, a fat, dappled grey pony.

He loved his parents, but his special person was always Grandma Lydie. Descended distantly from the Cherokee Tribe, she was a product of rural Appalachia, strong and steady like the mountains she always considered her home, grounded in who she was, as outgoing and loquacious as his parents were reticent and quiet. He had her build, they were both thin and wiry but deceptively strong. She had sparkling grey eyes, a shock of silver hair shot with black, and a throaty voice. She laughed often. Plain spoken, sharp witted, and quick tempered, especially when confronted with injustice, cruelty, or oppression, she was the only one of the family excused from the compulsory church attendance. He could not imagine the battles she must have waged against her father-in-law to achieve her religious autonomy. An avowed humanist, she protected Leonard from the bulk of Grandpa John's pious wrath. He learned to read sitting on her lap. They often spent time at her childhood home, an isolated and self-sufficient cabin in the North Carolina mountains, learning and celebrating the diversity of the region. She knew which mushrooms were edible, and which plants had medicinal properties. Lydie was a fine artist who taught him to draw and helped collect and categorize rocks, leaves, and bugs. They both kept a sketchbook of their mountain outings. At home they worked in the garden tending vegetables, flowers, and her favorite roses. Grandma cleaned and prepared the game that her son brought in from time to time. She taught Leonard how to cook, insisting a good man should know his way around the kitchen. She poked holes in jar lids for collecting lightning bugs and lay on blankets under the stars watching meteor showers with her grandson. They took the tram into Atlanta and visited museums, saw concerts and plays, and did city things. She encouraged his interest in science and biology and advocated for his parents' approval to attend the University of Mississippi as a pre-med student when he was barely sixteen.

Grandma Lydie saw him graduate from college and knew he had been accepted to medical school at Ole Miss, Johns Hopkins, and Emory. She died before he made the decision to attend Johns Hopkins. She fell in her garden, dead before she hit the ground, the victim of an massive brain aneurysm. She was a hundred and four.

He realized he was twisting the ring he wore on his left hand little finger as he thought about Grandma Lydie. She wore it as a wedding ring. The blue stone was the same color as his eyes. During life, he never saw her hand without it. After she passed, his Daddy handed him a package with a few mementos, a couple of her sketchbooks, her favorite cookbook, and her ring. He had bawled like a baby, but in private. He wore her ring. Her other things were packed in his bedroom at the farm.

McCoy had not considered his childhood as being either Arcadian or difficult. In the rural South things could move at a slower pace, and the moderateness suited the dreamer in him. Although precocious and smart, he was not a prodigy. Learning came easily, he did not have to put in a lot of effort through elementary and high school. After skipping a couple of grades, he was always the youngest in his class. In his school of about two hundred students, he was neither ostracized nor in the wildly popular group. His teachers liked him because he was polite and well behaved, a good pupil, and although he could be disputatious his arguments were well thought out, reasoned and never vindictive. The debate team was a natural fit, and he served as its captain for three years in high school. With his quick reflexes and lean, unforced athleticism, he played shortstop on the school's baseball team. He sang in the chorus, learned guitar, had a couple of good friends, Aaron and Robby, and plenty of time to do nothing and everything. He spent a lot of time working and playing with the animals and exploring in the woods. He read a lot, practiced guitar, and kept a sketchbook, all solitary pastimes. He supposed he had grown up largely alone, but never thought of himself as being lonely until he reached adulthood and experienced grown-up betrayal, sorrow, and loss. T'Phol's dispassionate account of a displaced and forfeited childhood disturbed him on many levels and made him ache with a deprivation that wasn't his own. He resolved anew never to forget the value of simple things which seemed ordinary and unexceptional until they weren't there.


	14. Chapter 14

McCoy was startled by his cabin chime. He had a moment of confusion and bewilderment before realizing he had dozed off after all. He sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He went to the door and was a little surprised to find Uhura waiting.

"Come in, my dear." He ran a hand through his hair, sure it was sticking up in all directions.

Uhura stepped in. "I didn't mean to wake you."

He glanced at the chronometer and shook his head. "No, that's a good thing. I was about to oversleep. I'm meeting T'Phol for supper."

"Ah," she said. "That's one reason why I'm here, the concert tomorrow. And to find out how you are. I understand you had a close call yesterday."

McCoy pulled out a chair, offering her a seat. "I'm fine, Ny. Everyone over-reacted." He stepped to the synthesizer. "Would you like anything? I need coffee."

She lifted a delicately arched brow. "No, thanks. You mean just like the way you over-react when a crew member is involved in an accident?"

"I never over-react." He carried his coffee to the table and sat across from Uhura.

She laughed. "Len, you are priceless, and I am very glad you are OK."

McCoy blushed and gave her his 'aw-shucks' look. He took a sip, hiding his slight embarrassment behind the cup. "So," he said, "you have thoughts about the concert?"

"We will plan the actual performance tonight with T'Phol, but I wanted you to have a heads up about the reception following."

"The reception?"

Uhura rolled her eyes. "It would be rude to beg a performance without at least hosting a party. Don't worry, it's all arranged. We'll have the refreshment tables set up in the officer's mess next door, but the galley staff is taking care of all that. It will overflow back into the main mess hall."

"Good. I don't know anything about party plannin'."

"All you need to know is this is a formal event, so officers should be in dress uniform or formal wear. This includes you."

McCoy grimaced. "I hate that dress tunic."

"You can stand it for one evening. Besides, you look dashing in it. It matches your eyes. T'Phol will be enchanted."

McCoy set his cup down firmly. "Are you and Chapel in cahoots?"

"Not at all." Uhura smiled. "I would never cahoot you, Dear Doctor. I also will not point out the obvious. You have eyes."

He looked at her, torn between between glare and grin. What emerged was a strangled snort. He hid behind another sip of coffee, knowing he had always been transparent to Uhura.

She patted his hand and got up. "I'll see you after dinner. We still have some planning to do. And we're having a jam session. Ta ta!" She swept out the door, leaving McCoy sitting alone, bemused.


	15. Chapter 15

Except for the guard, the alcove was empty when McCoy arrived. He chimed at T'Phol's door and waited for a moment. He was almost ready to ring again when the door opened.

"Come in. I was engaging in a bit of programming. I did not intend to ignore you."

He entered, noticing the Moog was opened on its stand and her violin was laid across her bunk. "So you've been busy. I napped."

She stepped back to the Moog, which was now sporting an attached keyboard filled with symbols. Her fingers played over it for a moment, then she hit a final button and turned to him.

"I usually meditate rather than nap. Both are sometimes necessary. Are you feeling better?"

"Yes. I guess my nap was productive after all." He looked at the keyboard. "These symbols are Vulcan, aren't they?"

T'Phol nodded. "This interface was built on Vulcan. It seemed presumptuous to insist it be in English or Standard. This is how I program the Moog for new instruments, or different pieces of music, or translate. I can also use it to integrate into an external computer."

"What are you working on now?"

"A composition for violin. Watching space flow by from the window suggested a new movement and direction for the piece. I think it will be ready for its premier by tomorrow night. We shall see." She gave a slight lift of her shoulders. "At any rate, I am hungry. Are you ready to eat?"

McCoy picked up her sweater from the back of the chair and held it open for her, smiling a little at her raised eyebrow. "Come on, T'Phol. Allow a Southern gentleman a little bit of chivalry."

"I will accept this courtesy as a well meaning gesture, outdated though it appears. I do not understand the romanticized infatuation with Earth's Middle Ages. It does not seem a good time to be alive to me. Nor, I would think, to a surgeon, unless being a Sawbones and hacking off diseased and putrefying limbs with primitive equipment is also somehow enamoring." She shrugged into the garment.

"Courage, honor, and justice are timeless." McCoy smoothed her collar. "I read about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table when I was a kid. Of course my childish view of the saga was sanitized and wholesome. I was just a kid playing make believe. Actually, I was Sir Galahad. Daddy made me a lance and a shield, and I rescued damsels in distress and fought evildoers from the back of my noble steed Annie, alongside my brave and gallant companions Sir Rambler and Sir Bel." He looked at her a little sadly. Make believe was a thing where she likely had little experience. Certainly she had never roamed through the woods in search of imaginary adventure, unfettered by obligations or commitment.

T'Phol's eyes warmed with amusement and a hint of apology. "I would like to hear more."

McCoy decided it was not too late to bring a little playfulness to her current life. "Hark, fair lady. Follow me to yon pavilion to break thy fast, and I shall regale you with tales of daring and bravery over ye ole sup." He bowed, gallantly, sweeping his hand toward the door, offering her an elbow. After a very short hesitation, she played along, slipping her hand through and together they went to eat.

The officer's mess was empty. They ordered and sat, attending to their meals, T'Phol hungrily and McCoy from a sense that he should. When she finished, she requested a tea for herself and a coffee for him, then sat expectantly.

"I am waiting for your tales of gallantry and triumph in the face of great peril, Sir Galahad." T'Phol realized that in their time together she had done a great deal of talking and sharing, and he had done little, almost none. She had no way to know if he resisted opening up to her in particular, or whether his reluctance was globally part of his character. She greatly suspected the latter. It was a gulf she wanted to breach, but gently and with care.

McCoy took a sip of coffee, his neck flushing pink. "Aw, I don't know that there's really much to tell," he drawled.

"So you fabricated this story of damsels and dashing steeds?"

"Oh, no. The steed was real enough." His face folded into a gentle smile, remembering. He took another sip and sat back, taking a breath.

"My steed was a mule named Annabel Lee. I might have embellished the narrative a little about rescuing damsels..."

"Mule? A hybrid of horse and burro?"

"Donkey. Specifically a jack and mare. Sixty-three vigorous, hardy, and intelligent chromosomes. Inter-species breeding at its finest." He stopped, aware of what he had said. "Well, that didn't come out quite right."

T'Phol raised an eyebrow, her eyes glinting with humor. "I shall try not to take that personally, Doctor. Please continue."

McCoy gathered his thoughts again. "We had horses, too, but Annie was mine." He fiddled with his cup a minute. "Mules are smarter than horses, friendly, steady. I was a runty kid. She would hold her head down so I could bridle her. She really didn't need a bridle, though. I could ride her bareback and guide her by pulling on her mane. She followed me everywhere if she was out of the pasture. She would look in my pockets for treats.

"When I was in my King Arthur phase, she tolerated me clashing around with the lance and jousting at peach trees and hay bales. I was about eight years old." He paused. "Grandma helped me deck her out in medieval finery. We made trappings for Annie and armor for me, too. She wore her barding and caparison with aplomb and a lot of patience. We rode in our town's Christmas parade that year. Later I was a Nazgul, but she didn't like being shrouded in black. There was no evil in her."

McCoy thought he might have to explain the Nazgul reference, but obviously T'Phol was acquainted with the Tolkien Trilogy. She looked at him with a sharpness and comprehension that made him a bit uneasy.

"Interesting that you were a creature of darkness and not a kind wizard or a king of men. It does not seem to fit you at all."

"At the time, it did."

"When I read the series, I felt more like Boromir. Or Eowyn, if I must remain a female. Buffeted by forces that I had little love for and could not control. I have never ridden a horse. Annabel Lee sounds wonderful." T'Phol's voice was weighted by a wistful sadness.

"She was."

"Ah. There you are!" Uhura peeked around the doorway and stepped through, carrying a lute-sized bundle. "I thought I might find you still at dinner."

McCoy pulled a chair out for Uhura to join them. "We just finished. Have you eaten?"

"I had a sandwich. But I have brought dessert. They're called agele." She pulled three round, pale yellow fruits from her carry bag. She handed one to each of them before beginning her own.

"Thank you," T'Phol said, biting into hers immediately. McCoy sniffed his before taking a cautious nibble. His face lit and he continued with gusto.

"This is the Vulcan version of a peach," Uhura said. "Supply had some fresh food brought aboard while we were at Vulcan. I have connections."

"That was tasty," McCoy said, finishing the last bite. "I miss real food."

"Reconstituted food does get old," Uhura agreed. "It's always a treat when we have fresh things on board, or when we can get them on shore leave."

"Had I known, I could have brought you a bag of them. My grandparents' garden has several mature agele trees." T'Phol gathered the empties and put them in the recycling unit. "Are you ready for a lesson?" she asked Uhura.

Uhura patted her bag. "Any time. But business first. Have you considered a program?"

"Yes. Your crew is predominately Earth Human, is that correct? Would a mixture of classical and current popular tunes be acceptable? I have a list of possibilities on the PADD in my cabin."

"All right, let's go put it together," Uhura said, standing and gathering her bag. "Then I'll post the program on the inter-ship bulletin board so everyone can see." She turned to McCoy. "Aren't you coming with us?"

"You ladies go ahead. M'Benga has thrown me outta my own sickbay for today. I'm going to pout with Jim."

Unura poked his arm. "Don't pout too much."

"I'll be bright and bushy for tomorrow, don't worry." He looked at T'Phol. "If you need anything, have them call me."

"I will. Goodnight, Doctor."

They left in different directions. McCoy stopped by his quarters, selecting a bottle of brandy before continuing on to Kirk's cabin. Kirk answered his chime PADD in hand, looking a little weary. He was energized by crisis but found prolonged quiet, uneventful periods to be draining.

"Bones." Kirk grunted a greeting and moved aside. "Come on in."

McCoy stepped in, holding up the brandy bottle. "You wanna take a break for a minute?" he asked. "Everyone is workin' tonight but me."

Kirk got a couple of glasses and McCoy poured. They sipped for a few minutes, comfortable in companionship without banter to fill the silence. McCoy kicked off his boots, slumping in his seat.

"M'Benga release you yet?"

McCoy snorted. "Not yet. Tomorrow."

Kirk looked closely at him. "You're OK, though?"

"Yeah, 'm OK." He sat up straighter. "What do you think is going on with Vartheb and Kelan? They have got to be the strangest visitors we've ever had on board."

Kirk shrugged. "Whatever it is, I will be glad to have them off my ship. They won't be returning to the Enterprise once we reach Aminta."

"T'Phol wondered about all the equipment they brought on board. It was quite a lot."

Kirk frowned. "Nothing was out of sorts on the manifest or through the screening. I am a step ahead of you anyway. After your incident I had Kyle double-check the transport records. It was mostly computer equipment, a few archeological tools and gizmos. Nothing out of the ordinary"

"Yeah. The same screening that didn't identify the Def'Kato as a dangerous substance."

"It wasn't dangerous until it was burned."

"That's like sayin' a bomb isn't dangerous until it explodes."

"I know." Kirk took another swallow. "We'll get them off the ship, then have a few restful days orbiting Aminta."

'Famous last words. How long will we be there?" He drained his glass and poured another large splash, offering Kirk a refill which was declined.

"A few days, maybe a week. Uhura will be joining the science team, at least in a limited capacity. And they need a medical team to do routine physicals and inspect and supply the clinic facility. Set that up tomorrow when you return to duty."

Kirk's com-link chirped with an incoming message. He turned to it and tapped the screen, looking over the content for a minute. "Concert invitation," he said, turning the screen toward McCoy who leaned closer to read it then sat back, closing his eyes and nursing his glass without comment.

Kirk turned the screen back and forwarded the information to the ship-wide bulletin board. He looked at McCoy, who was unusually quiet and subdued, noting how thin and tired his friend appeared, wondering how long he had failed to notice the decline. McCoy was the constant he leaned on, depending on him to know when he needed a friendly shoulder, a kick in the pants or something in-between. It was hard to think that his pillar might have needed some support of his own and he hadn't noticed. He made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a grunt.

McCoy heard him and opened his eyes. "What's eatin' at you, Jim? Missing Spock?"

"In fact, yes." Kirk finished his brandy and set the glass aside

"Me, too." McCoy's mouth quirked in a little smile. "Don't act surprised, and don't tell him I said so. You'll ruin my reputation."

Kirk chuckled and looked at him speculatively. "Are you sure you're all right? Any thing you need to talk about?"

"Aren't you confused? Listening to confession is my job."

"I know, but...Sometimes everyone needs someone to be there." Kirk waited.

"I'm fine." McCoy tossed back the remainder of his drink and settled back, closing his eyes again to shut out Kirk's inquiring and concerned expression.

"You've been spending a lot of time with Miss Grayson."

McCoy's eyes snapped open. "What if I have?"

Kirk leaned back, wary of the sharpness. "I'm not prying, Bones. Take it easy."

"Sorry. You're not the first person to notice. Nothing is private on this tin bucket. I don't understand why all the interest."

"Well, she's a Vulcan. It seems odd."

McCoy flashed with genuine anger. "What in blazes is that supposed to mean? Odd? "

"Nothing." Kirk held up a pacifying hand. "Bad choice of words."

McCoy sat up, planting his feet on the floor, not willing to be soothed. "Damn straight it is." He ran a hand over his face, waiting for his indignation to pass so he could speak civilly, but he was angered beyond reason and the words spat themselves out anyway. "So what word were you looking for? Scandalous? Reprobate? Fatuous? Reckless? Lecherous? Do you want a fucking dictionary? I never demand that you get my approval before you act. Never. Do you think I have to ask for yours?" He glared at Kirk, who looked taken aback, hurt by his sharp ire, and maybe confused by the sudden turn of sensibility.

"That was ugly," Kirk finally said, echoes of the hurt bleeding through along with some anger of his own. "You knew I wasn't implying anything reprehensible. Certainly I was not assaulting your character. You dredged up those words from your own head, not mine. How about the word 'unexpected'. Is that better?"

McCoy suppressed a wild and inexplicable urge to laugh, thinking that nothing he did should surprise Jim after so many years. He found his anger draining away as suddenly as it had flared, leaving him empty and profoundly sad. He looked down. When he spoke it was not at all the tirade he originally intended to unleash. His voice was Georgia soft, tempered with sadness and affection, and maybe neediness.

"You and I have been friends goin' on fifteen years. We've served together with Spock on the Enterprise four and a half years now. You know our roles. You're the Golden Boy, youngest captain in the Fleet, gorgeous, a natural born leader. People gravitate to you, wanting your approval, wanting your light to shine on them. And Spock... Hell, he's Spock. A certified pointy eared more than genius brain with his unshakable sense of loyalty, decency, morality, you name an admirable quality, he's got it in spades. Mysterious, sexy in his austere Vulcan way. You two are different sides of the same coin.

"Then there's me. The third wheel. The irritable curmudgeon who has to be saved all too often from his own rashness. The one who is prone to making dubious choices and who argues and harangues and scolds. The plain old country doctor, getting plainer and older. And lonelier."

Kirk shook his head, brows drawn together in a frown. "You've got it all wrong. Not a coin. A teeter-totter. You're the fulcrum. The middle that keeps us balanced. And puts us back together when things fall apart. You're our humanity. Not to mention the best doctor in the Fleet and possibly the galaxy. How many times do we owe you our lives?"

"I owe you plenty, too, but that's not my point. We three are what we are, separately and together. The adoration is aimed at you two, and that's all right. People are cautious around me, reluctant to engage. I see it. Oh, I know," he waved his hand, glancing up briefly, "I bring a lot of that on myself and I actually cultivate some of it. I've earned respect, even trust. I am not traveling through my life to collect accolades, meaningful or not, and I sure don't want to develop a bunch of superficial friendships. You know that. But it's rare, _rare_ , that someone actually _gets_ me without breaking through first. You did. Uhura, too. Spock and I had to work through things. That's an ongoing process, we're still working out our friendship. Even Scotty and I had to learn each other, and we have more in common than than I do with anyone else on this ship. T'Phol is different. She knows I'm here with a load of baggage that would bring a pack mule to its knees and it doesn't matter. She wants me anyway. Maybe 'odd' wasn't such a bad word after all to describe our situation. But not because she's a young and beautiful Vulcan and I'm an old disillusioned grump and you think that's strange. There's something here, a lot lying under the surface. I don't understand it myself yet, so yeah, it cut when you labeled it so simply and thoughtlessly. Things are complicated for both of us, and for once I'm trying to be careful. But that doesn't mean I know what I'm doing or where this is going." He breathed deeply, hating the desperation that was creeping into his voice. He looked up at Kirk, his eyes brilliant sky blue in his intensity. "I can't screw this up." He fell silent.

Kirk searched his friend's face, uncertain and puzzled. He thought he knew the doctor as well as anyone, but this McCoy was unfamiliar, more volatile and frantic than normal and a little frightening. He sensed the man was on an edge, but he didn't know what, and he thought McCoy himself did not know either. His finger tapped on the desk unconsciously as he worried and formulated a reply.

"I promise I've never thought of you as a third wheel. Grumpy, yes, but you do that on purpose. To keep people distant." Kirk's voice got very soft. "To keep from getting hurt because you feel things so deeply." He looked at McCoy, who was not meeting his eyes. "I never knew you thought you were...Unliked. I should have noticed."

"Nothing you could do about it. I don't feel like that all the time..." He trailed off, looking at the floor. "I'm prone to a bad patch every now and then. Memories are gonna eat me alive. Or bury me." He almost shook himself, looking up. "This will pass," he said, seeing the worry reflected in Kirk's face. "Brandy always makes me maudlin and forlorn. That's why I prefer good Kentucky bourbon."

"That wasn't all brandy talking."

"Not all, but enough." McCoy sighed. "I took out my frustration on you. You deserve better than that, especially from me."

"I accept your apology. You're wrong about all that anyway. What I see is affection, maybe from a distance, but still there. You just don't see it. I'm worried about you. You're not yourself. This 'bad patch'...How bad is it? "

McCoy shrugged. "Uncomfortable. Not insurmountable. I told you I'll get through it." He almost flinched, thinking of describing the events of two nights before as being 'uncomfortable'. He did not want anyone to be privy to his abject misery. It was a darkly diseased thing inside him, usually well concealed but still capable of purulence when it stirred. He wished it would lie quietly forever, but it seemed that was not to be.

"I'm asking you, as your friend, if you think you need help." Kirk was leaning toward him, intent on the reply. McCoy heard the unspoken message clearly, that he would ask again as his CO if he thought it was necessary. He schooled his features into a neutral visage.

"If I do," he said, carefully, calmly, "I will see to it. I'll report to Doctor M'Benga."

Kirk nodded, for the moment satisfied. "I'll accept that answer for now. I need you to feel better, Bones."

"I know. And I will," McCoy said, trying to sound reassuring, falling into their pattern of 'Jim needs, Bones delivers'. When it came to himself rather than his medical skill, he imagined the delivery schedule might be uncertain and the product capricious. Still, Kirk needed to hear he was 'fine', or if he wasn't that he was close. Placating the captain had been his cottage industry for years, but duplicity was not in his nature. Kirk was a man who lived by the seat of his pants, but conversely liked order and predictability, and preferred events and people to follow a timetable. McCoy was often anything but ordered and predictable, and the Human mind could not be put on a schedule. He could not promise a return to his normalcy in two days or twenty. Or ever, whispered the dark thing, but he quickly pushed that thought out of his brain.

He leaned back, drained, wondering how many emotionally charged encounters he could withstand in a short period of time. The notion passed through his mind, not for the first time, that he should get Spock to teach him how to meditate. He closed his eyes, holding himself still and quiet. He didn't move when Kirk left his desk and sat beside him on the couch, and then he felt a hand, gentle but strong, squeezing his shoulder. He accepted the touch, grateful for it although he didn't say so aloud. Jim always thought things could be fixed by wanting them fixed. Usually that wanting also required an absurd amount of effort along with a lot of knowledge and sometimes a little luck. Right now, wanting seemed a good enough place to start, and for once Jim was quiet and not demanding, lending strength in just being there. He allowed himself to sink into that self-assured power for a few minutes. Eventually he straightened and Kirk let his hand drop away.

"If I can help, I expect you to let me know," Kirk said, almost a command, but made kindly and with an understanding that came from old friendship. "I have one more thing to say. You have the soul of a healer, filled with compassion and forgiveness. You should try offering some of that to yourself." He got up and moved back to his desk chair, slipping back into his Captain persona without further comment.

McCoy nodded. "Thanks, Jim. I..." He cleared his throat. "I appreciate that." He reached for his boots.

"You don't have to leave," Kirk said. "But no more brandy for you tonight."

He harrumphed as he pulled on his boots. "Right. I'm either going to bed or to watch the jam session, if it's still going on. You wanna come?"

Kirk picked up a PADD. "You sure about that? You look pretty beat. Anyway, some of us have work to do," he said, smiling. "You go on. I'll be at the concert tomorrow night, though."

McCoy paused at the door. "Tomorrow, then. Keep the brandy." Kirk waved him out.


	16. Chapter 16

McCoy actually debated with himself for a moment before heading to the guest alcove. He was tired, but being alone with only his thoughts for company held no attraction. Sama was on duty again, rising to his feet as he approached.

"Doctor McCoy," he greeted. "Lieutenant Uhura and Miss Grayson have gone to rec room five."

"OK, thanks." McCoy pointed down the corridor. "Quiet night?"

"Yes, Sir." Sama was not a man to waste words.

"Good. Carry on." He turned down the other hall. He could hear the crowd before he arrived. He looked through the door to find the room full of crew members, mingling and laughing. T'Phol was seated at the piano, Uhura perched on a stool beside her with the lyre. He was surprised to see Chief Kyle was also on the small stage with a clarinet and a music stand. The three had their heads together looking at some sheet music. McCoy made his way in and leaned against the back wall, watching. After a short discussion, they took positions. The crowd quietened and T'Phol began playing, joined by Kyle and Uhura. It was not a terribly long piece, slow paced and melodic. McCoy found the clarinet to be haunting and beautiful. He had not even known Kyle played. They finished to lots of applause from an enthusiastic and appreciative crowd. T'Phol stood, applauding as well, urging Kyle and Uhura to take another bow. Her eyes swept the room, settling on him for an instant before moving past.

"That was Fantasiestuck for clarinet and piano, by German composer Robert Schumann, featuring Winston Kyle on clarinet and Nyota Uhura on twelve string lyre."

Kyle's fair skin was blushing crimson, but he was obviously pleased. Someone in the crowd called for another, but he waved them off, shaking his head. "I'm not in practice," he said. "I don't have the chops for another round!" He left the stage amid more applause and laughter.

T'Phol and Uhura conferred briefly, Uhura calling up something on a PADD before T'Phol turned to the audience again.

"I look forward to seeing you at tomorrow's concert in the main mess hall. The final piece tonight will be a vocal performance. Here is Miss Uhura again, singing 'Black Velvet', a late twentieth century rock standard.

The piano was heavily soul-flavored blues, Uhura's voice sultry, sublime as always. The audience was enthralled until the end. Following the prolonged applause, the crew wanted to meet and chat, so they were surrounded by people for several minutes. McCoy waited until the crowd thinned before making his way toward the front. Uhura was free first. She stood on her toes to kiss his cheek, her eyes dancing. "What did you think?"

"I thought it was wonderful. You sounded great, as always."

She pulled his head closer. "That was an unspoken and private dedication to you," she whispered. "Black velvet smile, slow Southern style. It fits you like a glove."

"What?" McCoy was confused. She cut her eyes to the tall Vulcan, who was still talking amidst a knot of crew members. His eyebrows raised and he felt the hated red seeping into his face. He was well up in his forties, dammit, and too old to still be blushing like a schoolgirl with a crush. He looked at the floor, embarrassed, but pleased.

Uhura gently smiled at his discomfort. "T'Phol asked me if I knew the song, so we did a run through in her quarters before coming out here. You remember what I said before? About the obvious? There you go."

"I don't need a matchmaker, Ny."

"I am beginning to think you need an engraved invitation. Evidently you're being hard headed."

"Y'all were _talkin'_ about me?" His cheeks glowed with heat, his accent dripped with magnolia.

"Actually, no. T'Phol isn't much for idle chatting and we certainly did not gossip. But I am good at reading between the lines. Even Vulcan lines. And I can tell a good yearning when I see one."

"I think you're exaggerating. Anyway, it's not that simple."

"You often over complicate things. Think about the future sometimes instead of the past."

"Thinking about the future is the complication."

She looked at him gravely. "The past is complicated place, too."

"Yeah. Tell me."

Uhura glanced around, no one appeared to be heading their way. She pulled him closer to the corner for a little privacy. "I can see you're going through a hard time again," she said quietly. I don't like to watch you hurt, Len. You're like my big brother."

"Well, at least you didn't say I'm like your father." McCoy smiled, but it must not have been convincing. Uhura was still watching him, her dark eyes full of concern. He sighed. "I love you for caring about me, but right now I just can't take another pep talk."

"And I was not planning to give you one, Doctor. Maybe a swift kick in the butt. When you're caught up in this state, in this gloom, you wallow in a pool of sorrow and self-recrimination. My pity won't help. I hate to see you so lonely when maybe there's an answer staring you in the face, if you weren't too stubborn to believe in yourself. You could step out of your zone. Or maybe even let someone in."

McCoy shook his head. "Have you read Robert Frost? He was tragic and depressed. His words cut like scalpels.

" 'They cannot scare me with their empty spaces

Between stars – on stars where no human race is.

I have it in me so much nearer home

To scare myself with my own desert places.' "

He looked down, his eyes absurdly stinging with tears he desperately did not want to shed in the rec room. He swallowed and blinked.

Uhura saw his distress and was still, giving him time to collect himself. She looked at T'Phol, who was apparently winding down her conversation and edging toward them. She turned back to McCoy when he had regained his composure.

"I'll look up that poem," she said. "But even the harshest, most barren and unforgiving desert will bloom into life if given the chance and a little care. Think about that."

T'Phol approached so McCoy did not reply and the conversation was mercifully ended while he still held himself more or less together. She searched his face with her keen eyes, glancing at Uhura as well. She addressed McCoy. "I would have called you to the stage to sing, but your throat is not ready."

'Thank goodness you didn't. Uhura is the one people want to hear sing. Kyle was no slouch on that clarinet, either. I'm surprised you didn't have Scotty on the bagpipes."

"Uhura did approach him about the possibility," said T'Phol. "He said he will need a little liquid fortification before making an appearance in front of an audience."

"If I know Scotty, more than a little. By the time he's inebriated enough to get up there in front of people, he'll be too drunk to play."

"I'm sure you would know," Uhura said drily. Aside to T'Phol she added, "Our chief medical officer and our chief engineer are shore leave buddies, when either one decides to go at all, that is. They're both workaholics, when the truth comes out."

"Now, let's not start telling any tales. Particularly truthful ones. I have a reputation to uphold."

"I would never dream of expunging either of your sterling characters, Doctor McCoy," Uhura said with a small flourish. "And I have an early shift tomorrow, so I need to gather my lyre and be on my way. T'Phol, once again, fabulous. Thank you so much. I will see you tomorrow afternoon in case we need to make any last minute adjustments. Good night." She gave McCoy a quick hug and picked up her bag on the way out.

There were people still in the rec room. At one table several crewmen were dealing a card game, another couple was setting up the chess board. McCoy turned to T'Phol. "Would you like to take a walk? Nighttime on the ship is quiet, it's a different environment. You haven't seen the observatory. Or most of the arboretum,"

"I would like that, yes."

The corridor lights were noticeably dimmer during the ship's 'night' in keeping a Human circadian cycle. They strolled side by side not speaking much. McCoy led the way to the observatory. Aptly named, it was not an actual astronomical lab, but rather a cozy, darkened, secluded area with several viewports, a couple of small tables and chairs, and a couch. There was indeed a telescope mounted at one of the windows, but stargazing in warp space was a useless endeavor. It was deserted, so they entered. McCoy sat on the couch and watched as T'Phol stood at a viewport looking into the flowing light that was warp plasma conduit.

"You are fascinated by that, aren't you?"

She turned part of the way toward him, he could see her profile against the flickering light. "Fascinating is not the correct word."

"You're not going to say it's 'interesting', are you?" He couldn't help but chuckle. She looked at him then. He could not make out her features in the dim light to know that she smiled, but he thought she did.

"No. It is disturbing, although I am drawn to it. It makes me feel insignificant, powerless."

"Sometimes we all feel that way. Frail. Small. Afraid. It's part of the Humanoid condition, maybe the same for all corporeal beings."

"What frightens you?"

McCoy was silent. She left the viewport and crossed the small space to where he was seated, her footsteps Vulcan and silent. "May I sit?" He patted the cushion beside him and she sat close enough to feel his Human heat, but not touching. She leaned back, controlling her breathing and forcing a relaxed posture.

"I'm a doctor. I'm frightened of things you probably haven't even imagined." he finally said.

"I am sure that is true. I am glad I do not know of those things. But what frightens Leonard McCoy when he is not being a doctor?"

"I'm always a doctor."

She sighed, a very Human sound.

"What are you afraid of, T'Phol?"

"I am more honest than you, Leonard. I will say outright that I do not want to tell you. At least not now." He huffed in the darkness with humor, she thought, and not frustration. She pressed him again. "Does the sun set like molasses in the sky where you are from? Tell me about it."

"I guess it does, all amber and slow on a hot day. Mississippi is in that song. And Memphis, Tennessee. I did pre-med at Ole Miss, but Georgia is my home. Have you ever been down south?"

"Only in concert. I have never visited for pleasure. It is warm and the natives speak with charm and grace. I had a tutor from Virginia for my middle and upper level school work. That is the compass of my personal experience. What is molasses? I have never eaten it."

"It's Southern, a thick, sweet syrup. Made from crushing sugar cane and boiling the liquid down until it reaches the proper viscosity. It's good on homemade biscuits." He was quiet for a moment. "I don't think you really wanted to talk about molasses."

"It does not matter. Please talk about any subject you like. Or be silent, if that is more comfortable for you. You bring out a verbose tendency that I did not know I possessed. I simply thought it might be your turn to talk. Either way I am content in your company."

"I do find your presence comforting. Maybe too much so. You could become a habit."

T'Phol turned her head, studying him in the dim light. He was looking at her. She could see the faint flicker of the warp light reflected in his blue eyes. His face betrayed nothing, but his presence loomed large in her mental perception, churning with many emotions. She loosed a tendril of inquiry, but could not read his mood through the confusion.

"I cannot tell whether you think that would be good or bad."

"Neither can I." He reached for her hand and she intertwined her fingers with his. His thumb traced slow circles over hers. She leaned into him, breathing his Human scent, his clean doctor smell tinged with the very faint hint of antiseptic. He adjusted his position a bit and they fit together. He rested his head against her shoulder as she softly stroked the nape of his neck with her free hand, feeling him relax into her with a sigh that was not quite a groan, sensing his mind slowly ease and quieten. They sat together without moving or speaking for a long space of minutes. He brought their joined hands up to his chest, then let go, lifting his head and cupping her jaw with his fingers, running his thumb over her lips, a feather light touch. Their faces were close together, so near that even in the dimness she could see his pupils wide and dark. She waited, expecting, but he made no further advance. He brushed his fingers against her cheek, the caress devastating and tender, then lowered his hand, moving away a fraction.

T'Phol did not want to disturb the connection between them, but she spoke, breaking the silence. "Your touch is welcome. Do you not wish to continue?"

"Not tonight." His voice seemed heavy with disappointment or regret. She inclined her head, accepting but not understanding. Their shoulders and arms were still touching. She could feel his warmth through her sweater, the same heat that radiated into her fingers still resting on his neck. She sat straighter and moved her arm, but he caught her hand before she moved away.

"Please stay," McCoy said, almost a whisper.

T'Phol brought his hand to her face, pressing her cheek briefly to his knuckles before letting go. "I was not leaving. I was protecting your personal space from my intrusion."

"I'm not rejecting you. It's – complicated." He sighed with frustration.

"You do not have to explain," she said gently, without rancor. "Your complexity is labyrinthine in itself. Complications seem unavoidable." She felt his silent chuckle as he pressed his forehead against her shoulder for a brief instant before pushing back and getting to his feet. He offered his hand as she stood, holding on for an extra minute.

"Do you know the story of the Labyrinth?"

"In Greek mythology?" T'Phol nodded.

"It was a dangerous place." He sounded earnest, uneasy.

"Yes." She paused. "I am not afraid to enter and face whatever peril lies within your maze. I have a ball of thread." She squeezed his hand. "And you have a jousting mule. Nothing can defeat us, Sir Leonard."

His laugh was genuine, unaffected and authentic.


	17. Chapter 17

He was looking for something. He knew it was in another room, but there were many corridors, and in the walls were many doors. Some had intricate locking mechanisms, or a simple fenestration that would fit an antique skeleton key. Others had knobs without locks or slid open when he approached. The open rooms were all empty. He had a big ring of keys on his belt. None of the keys appeared to match any of the locks. He tried several different doors and keys, but either the key would not turn or his hand trembled so violently that he could not get them lined up. He carried the keyring for a long time, turning uncounted corners, trying myriads of doors. His footsteps reverberated in the empty space, the echoes bouncing back into his ears from every direction. He was tired of the discordant clanging, and the keys got heavier with every step, but it was imperative that he continue in his task. Eventually the ring got too heavy to lift. It fell from his numb fingers, but the sound it made when it hit the floor was lilting and melodic, a tune he thought he should know but couldn't recall. He was glad for the sound of freedom, the feeling of lightness.

Looking down the long corridor, he saw a lone door at the end. A bright light was shining through the keyhole, the beams were almost blinding in intensity. The shape was familiar. He realized the matching key was on the ring he had been carrying, but when he looked to the spot where it had fallen his vision went dark. He dropped to his knees, groping blindly, frantically. His hand connected with an object. It was a key, and he almost shouted in his relief. He looked again, the door at the end of the corridor was still glowing, not as brightly, and now he could tell the light was distinctly coral colored. He was filled with immediate foreboding. He tried to fling the key far from him, but it was suddenly sticky and clung to his palm. He was fighting panicked hysteria when his communicator chirped and he flipped it open.

"Doctor, your consternation is most illogical. The key in your hand is unmistakeably not a match for the door in question. Observe your perceived difference in the reflected visible wavelengths spectrum."

"If you mean look at the color, just say so, you hobgoblin!"

"I just did, Leonard," he said patiently in the voice he so often used when sparring. "Perhaps Grandma Lydie will make biscuits." The communicator went silent.

He looked at the key in his hand, which was now softly glowing. It was green. At the end of the corridor the door was fading, its light growing dim and extinguishing as he watched. He smelled the sweet odor of molasses. "I'll have to make the biscuits, though," he said into the dead communicator, gripping the key with an intensity that hurt his fingers.

* * *

McCoy woke in total darkness, his heart beating hard and his hand clenched and painful. The chronometer indicated it was almost four hundred hours. He went to the bathroom, brightening the lights enough to see the crescent moon impressions his nails had left in his palm, just short of bringing blood. He got a drink of water and returned to bed.

He mulled over the dream for a few minutes, thinking Freudian interpreters would have fun dissecting the elements and symbolism and finding his id's hidden, primitive, and animalistic meaning. His dreams and night terrors had always been grandly detailed, full of vivid color and sound, and rife with emotion. Often he knew or could guess the meaning without needing a Freudian or other psychological theory from different schools of thought, and he knew a lot of those. He knew the chemistry involved, the physiological process. Sometimes he took the Ebeneezer route and attributed the madness to a bit of undigested beef or underdone potato. He seldom dreamed when he was drinking, alcohol severely suppressed his REM sleep. But if he got drunk enough and dreamed while in the REM rebound period following the alcohol's metabolization, those could be terribly realistic and frightening in their energy.

The key dream was different, but not because of the underlying theme. Denial, fear, repression, and searching were recurring topics in his subconscious. Even through the dread, he had not been reduced by the Coral Menace to a shivering and incapacitated shadow of a man. Of course, he had not faced it directly, but he thought he knew what lay behind the door at the end of the corridor, at the moment still securely locked away.

He drifted back into sleep, thinking of balls of thread and molassey biscuits.


	18. Chapter 18

Sickbay was busy when McCoy arrived early to begin his shift. Sanchez and two night shift nurses had patients on two biobeds. McCoy started in to help, but Sanchez stopped him at the door.

"Thanks, Doctor McCoy, but it's all right. Just a minor mishap in engineering, nothing serious. I have orders from Doctor M'Benga that you are not to begin until he clears you for duty." Sanchez leaned closer and lowered his voice. "I think Geoff is miffed because you didn't come back for a check and treatment last night. He'll be here in a few minutes."

"I think he has forgotten just who is chief here," McCoy grumbled, but without heat. He knew protocol as well as anyone. "Fine. I'll be in my office unless you need me."

He opened his computer to find three flagged items. One was the amended schedule he had requested from Chapel just two days earlier, although it felt like it was much longer in the past The others were the concert announcement and the toxicology report on the defkato, which he had already studied in some detail, but he found himself looking over it again, frowning. He was still there when M'Benga stuck his head around the door.

"Good morning, Leonard."

"Mmmhh?" McCoy looked up. "Oh. Morning, Geoff."

"Give me a few minutes to get the biobeds emptied and I'll put you on the scanner."

He was still buried in the report when M'Benga came to get him. "Is this the entire defkato tox screen? How many panels were run? Are there any still outstanding?"

"Full panel plus A and B on isolated components. All the results should be in the report." He stopped and looked at McCoy closely. "Is there a problem? You're not having new symptoms, are you?"

"No, no." McCoy chewed at his bottom lip. "I can't shake the feeling we're missing something. I'd love to get Vartheb in here for an examination, but I understand he refused." He leaned back from the screen. "Do we have more of the substance? I want to run some additional tests."

"Yes, we should have some left. You can run your tests after I run mine. Come on."

McCoy followed M'Benga into the treatment room and took the first biobed. "What happened in engineering?"

"Essentially horseplay," M'Benga replied. "Sprained wrist and bruised ribs. They're both all right, or they will be until Scott finds out." He passed a scanner over McCoy's chest and studied the readings. "How do you feel? Your lungs look good this morning, but you're dry. You're still a little hoarse. Is your throat sore now?"

"Very little. I feel pretty good. I'll drink water today."

"See that you do. Well, I guess we're done. Are you ready to get back to work? I'm clearing you for duty, Doctor McCoy." He stepped back as McCoy slid down from the biobed.

"Thanks, Geoff. Go take the morning off."

"You have a fairly busy schedule this morning. I'll relieve you after lunch to free you for the concert preparation. It's creating quite a buzz. People are excited."

"Well, it's been a while since we've had a real shore leave or any kind of diversion. These youngsters have too much pent up energy. Combine that with some boredom and the regular twist of danger thrown in for good measure and we see hijinks like those this morning. Every crew member should be putting in some extra gym time while the ship is on light duty at Aminta. Or an intra-ship basketball tournament. Maybe a talent show isn't a bad idea. Cooking lessons. Ball room dancing. Hell, I don't know, whatever tones the body and expands and soothes the mind." He paused. "I have often thought that deep space ships should have a formal recreation department for the mental health aspect if no other reason. I know holodeck technology is advancing but practicality is still some way in the future."

"You should make a presentation to the brass. After we finish our five year mission, your words will be golden and they'll have to listen."

McCoy stared, not sure if he was being kidded or not. M'Benga laughed and clapped him on the back on the way out.


	19. Chapter 19

As M'Benga promised, it was a busy morning in Sickbay. It was mid-afternoon by the time McCoy signed off duty. He bypassed the guest alcove and headed straight for the main mess, thinking the team would still be busy preparing the stage. Although he was expecting change, he was still surprised when he entered the large room.

The transformation from eating area into a concert hall was almost complete. The front and side walls were screened with black drapery, hanging in heavy folds. A multi-sectioned baffle surrounded the new elevated stage floor. The stage, reached by two steps, was translucent and lit by patterns of light. He couldn't tell if they came from above or underneath. A lighting grid was suspended above the stage. The tables had been moved closer together in arcs across the room and more chairs had been placed in the rear. McCoy guessed the room would now seat a hundred fifty people and still leave some standing room on both sides. T'Phol was near the stage, directing the placement of the piano. Two men from engineering were maneuvering it into position using anti-grav units. Uhura, Scott, and Engineer Tamura were seated at a table. McCoy wound his way through the room and took a seat with them. Uhura leaned forward with a wide smile.

"What do you think? Impressive, isn't it?"

He nodded. "It's hard to believe this is the mess hall. Congratulations to you all on a great job."

Scott glanced up from his tablet, eyes warming in a smile. The floating video drone lay on the table. He and Tamura were busy with PADDs inputting the room's dimensions preparing to program the drone's trajectory.

"Aye, 'twas a group effort. Almost done except for the flight pattern. Tam here is a genius at that sort of thing."

Tamura looked up, acknowledging the compliment. "We're waiting now for the piano to be moved into place. Then we can do a test run." She turned her attention back to her work, making adjustments with the stylus.

McCoy watched as the piano was settled into position and the anti-grav units were removed. T'Phol placed the bench and then came to the table and sat beside Uhura. She nodded at him in greeting, a quick flash of warmth. Then Tamura leaned over with a question about camera angles which they discussed at some length, joined by Scott. Eventually they were ready to test the drone, so T'Phol moved to the stage and sat at the piano. Scott launched the device and they watched it flit around the stage and above the audience, sweeping gracefully from a variety of heights and angles.

'Play a bit, if you don't mind," called Tamura, standing and moving closer to the stage. "I'd like to try something, but we need to be sure it won't bother you while performing."

T'Phol complied, playing a piece that McCoy did not recognize. Tamura worked with the stylus and the sphere floated on stage to within a few inches of the keyboard. T'Phol paused, turning to her.

"That is rather close. What would happen if I made impact with it?"

"Nothing serious," Tamura replied. "It would be knocked from its planned trajectory, but it would recover and resume. I will be able to adjust it at any point during the actual performance." She thought a moment. "Play using your most vigorous movements. I will set a wider avoidance parameter."

After a few trials and adjustments, they were both satisfied with the result at the piano and they repeated the process with the violin. Tamura invited T'Phol and Scott to look at her PADD as she replayed the test footage. The drone hovered over her shoulder as they watched. Tamura turned, taking it in her hand. "Good job, drone," she said fondly, hitting the off button.

T'Phol looked at her, raising an amused eyebrow. "That could be a Golden Snitch," she said. "The engineering crew might enjoy a game of Quidditch in the hanger bay."

Tamura and Scott looked puzzled, but in the background she heard McCoy's quick bark of laughter. "Quidditch is a game from a series of early twenty-first century fantasy novels," T'Phol explained. "It involves teams on flying brooms attempting to capture a small golden winged ball."

Tamura laughed. "What about it, Commander? Can we put together some anti-grav brooms?"

"Yes, Scotty," Uhura said, rising from her chair and joining them. "I'd give a week's pay to see you on a flying broom."

"Ach!" Scott shook his head, his expression rather dour. "Then they'd be treating broken necks in Sickbay instead of sprained wrists." He muttered something under his breath that T'Phol suspected was a Scottish curse.

McCoy grunted in agreement. "I don't have a spell of healing in my bag."

Tamura smiled, unabated. "Oh well, it would have been glorious." She handed the drone to Scott. "This Snitch is ready to fly, Sir, with four different patterns. I'll adjust the timing during the actual concert tonight."

"Aye, fine job, Tam. This evening, then." He turned to T'Phol. "Yer lighting is ready, Lass. And the mics and recording stations, they're all good to go."

"This was a large undertaking to be accomplished in such a short period of time. I shall endeavor to do justice to your work."

"I've nae a doubt about that, Miss T'Phol. If ye need anythin' else, let me know. I'll be here early tonight before show time." He bowed a bit, picking up his PADD from the table and waved at Uhura and McCoy before exiting the room.

"Can I help you prepare?" Uhura asked. "I am free for the rest of the day."

"My usual routine is to take some private practice time, followed by a short meditation period before the performance. In this case, getting dressed will be simple. I did not bring concert attire, so my appearance will be rather informal by necessity."

Uhura's lips formed a silent O. "I didn't think of that. You are welcome to borrow something of mine, but it would be far too short. Why don't we visit the quartermaster and see what the wardrobe department can come up with?"

"You have a wardrobe department on a star ship?"

"Mostly for uniforms, but sometimes landing parties need to be outfitted in local or historical garb. They do not normally fabricate personal clothing, each crew member is responsible for their own, but this is a special circumstance."

McCoy stood, edging around the table. "Is there anything you need me to do? I wouldn't be much use on your dress foray."

Uhura shook her head. "I think everything is under control. Could you pick up the programs from Yeoman Maravelle in records? They were ready earlier, but we were busy in here."

"I'll do that." He looked at T'Phol. "And you?" His tone was pitched low, somehow intimate.

A beat of silence. "I am fine." Her voice was also soft and smooth.

Uhura watched their eyes meet and had the idea T'Phol was answering a different question than the one spoken aloud. McCoy nodded, evidently satisfied. "I have an important errand, too. I'll see you both later."

Two sets of eyes followed his departure, then Uhura turned to T'Phol. "Come on, let's get you a knock-em-dead outfit for tonight."

"A render them briefly unconscious outfit will probably suffice," T'Phol deadpanned. Uhura looked at her in surprise, then burst into laughter as they headed down the corridor.


	20. Chapter 20

McCoy entered his cabin carrying the package of programs and a box. He placed them on the table and checked the chronometer. It was almost two hours until show time. He showered, taking the time to put straightener on his hair and apply a bit of cologne. Then he opened his closet and looked at the hated dress uniform hanging innocuously in place. He sighed, briefly considering his civilian tuxedo instead, but he removed the satiny blue tunic from the hanger, pulling it on over his black undershirt. His fingers slid up the fastener, leaving the neck open a few inches. Except for the stripe on the outside leg seams, the trousers were the same as everyday wear. Probably no one had figured a way to make pants hideously uncomfortable he thought sourly as he pulled on his boots. He opened the box containing his awards and decorations and pinned them into place before fastening the collar. He stood straight and studied his reflection in the mirror with a critical eye. Somehow he felt a little like a kid going on a first date. He was a little scrawny, he admitted, but his hair was still thick with almost no grey, and although he sported a few wrinkles his eyes were as bright blue as ever. He gave in to a childish impulse to stick out his tongue at himself. Vanity was not usually his vice.

He turned from the mirror, picked up the packages, and headed for the concert.


	21. Chapter 21

T'Phol had just finished taking a sonic shower when her door chimed. She pulled her robe around her and answered. It was Uhura, laden with several bags, including a long one that she laid carefully on the bunk. She had changed into a flowing caftan in shades of gold, red, and rust that complemented her coloring. It was embellished with intricate embroidery. Her hair was swept into an elaborate arrangement and bracelets jingled on her arms.

T'Phol stared a moment. "You are beautiful," she said, "very elegant. And taller."

Uhura lifted her hem and pointed to her high heels. "I have a secret," she laughed.

"You are so wonderfully petite, and your feet are lovely in those shoes. I cannot walk in heels. Also my feet are bigger than average."

Uhura raised a brow. "You are tall and willowy. You don't need three inch heels. When you walk you almost glide with graceful movements that would make any dancer proud." She paused. "Every one has something that is beautiful, whether inside or out. You are beautiful, too."

T'Phol felt a little uncomfortable. "I have never been told that before."

"It's true," Uhura said. "Here is the dress, supply just sent it over." She removed the wrapping from the bag and held up the hanger. The gown was a dark fern color they had chosen, set with a scattering of beads that glittered when they caught the light. T'Phol slipped out of her robe and into the dress.. It was sleeveless, with a straight and simple cut. The material was soft and had a slight sheen.

"It fits perfectly," T'Phol said. "I continue to be amazed at the resources available on the Enterprise, even on short notice."

"Well, we can't stop at the nearest store and pick up what we need. Of course, there are things we do without, too. Could you use some help in getting ready? I am very good at styling hair. I brought some things to work with."

"That is an offer which I gratefully accept. I usually pull my hair in a bun to keep it out of the way,"

Uhura sat her in the chair and fashioned her long hair into a bun, held in place with some jeweled picks. T'Phol inspected the result in the mirror, somewhat bemused by the unaccustomed attention but pleased with the result, even though it felt a little foreign to her. She did her own touch of makeup, no more than she usually wore.

"You look stunning," Uhura said. "I have one more thing for you." She opened the last bag and shook out a fringed shawl, woven with glittery gold and very soft to the touch. "You can wear this at the reception. It's warmer than it looks."

T'Phol took it, draping it around her shoulders. "It is gorgeous. Thank you. You have been very kind to me. You all have. "

"I am glad you feel welcome. And thank you for being so gracious in presenting us with this concert. Space travel is an odd mixture of hair raising danger and crushing monotony. Having an artist of your caliber on board to perform is a treat."

"You are the ones putting in the work," T'Phol said. "All I have to do is show up. Everyone involved has done a remarkable job. It is my pleasure and honor to play for you."

"We have about thirty minutes. I'm going out now to greet and pass out programs. I'll come back for you, or send someone to escort you to the stage."

"I customarily meditate for a few minutes just prior to stage time. I will be ready."


	22. Chapter 22

Uhura hurried to the mess hall. McCoy and Scott were standing outside the door, each with a stack of programs in hand. Scott was resplendent in his formal kilt, the red of his tunic and hose contrasting with the grey and black Scott tartan. Uhura kissed him on the cheek and took some programs from his hand. "I forgot how gorgeous you are in your kilt. Can I get your number?"

Scott bowed. "I think ye already have it, Lassie. Yer looking fine yerself tonight."

"Thanks, Scotty. I definitely need to give you a call." She turned to McCoy with a hug. Leaning close, she sniffed and winked. "Mmmm. You smell scrumptious!"

McCoy blushed, grinning. "It's a special occasion."

Uhura smiled back at him. "Of course it is."

She peeked around the door. The stage was now adorned with two large potted plants from the botany lab. She hoped Sulu had vouched for their dispositions. Some of his exotic flora were a little _too_ alive. A fabric runner covered the plain piano, with a column of candle holders placed on top. T'Phol's violin was held in a spidery stand beside the piano, and the Moog was on a table at the rear of the small stage. The room was at least half full already with more coming in. When under normal green conditions, over a quarter of the four hundred thirty plus crew were off duty at any given time. The reconfigured mess hall seated one hundred fifty-six, either at tables or in the added chairs, with standing room for perhaps another fifty. In addition to the actual venue, viewing screens had been set up in several other locations, including the smaller mess halls, and the crew lounges, and the live video would be available on any screen through the comm system with audio piped throughout the ship.

Tamura was seated stage right with her PADD. Uhura watched as she launched the drone, now dubbed Snitch. It floated over to her and paused. She waved into its lens and it continued on a pass around the room. Chekov, Sulu, Kyle and DeSalle were seated together at a front table. The one beside them was still unoccupied, earmarked as the Captain's Table.

She turned back to McCoy. "Have you seen the Captain yet? He is giving the welcome and introduction."

McCoy shrugged. "He'll be here. Probably with two minutes to spare."

Kirk actually arrived five minutes before show time, as rakish, debonair, and put together as usual. McCoy wondered how Kirk always looked like royalty in his dress uniform, wearing it easily as if he had been born in it. Even Kirk's hair cooperated, simply looking attractively sporty, although it was mussed. Without straightener, his own stuck out in various directions with the appearance that he had forgotten to use a comb.

Kirk greeted them, having a quiet word with Uhura first, who then went to talk to Tamura. He looked around the doorway at the crowd. The room was practically full, with the standing room becoming occupied quickly.

"Who's minding the store?" McCoy asked.

"Leslie," he replied. "How are you feeling?"

"Like a pig wearin' lipstick," McCoy said wryly.

"What?" Kirk shook his head, and stepped a little closer, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Do I smell cologne, Bones?"

McCoy rolled his eyes. "For Christ's sake, Jim. Act your age."

Kirk chuckled and might have continued teasing, but Uhura returned, all business.

Gentlemen, we are right on time. Tam says everything is ready and working as planned. Doctor McCoy, would you like to go fetch T'Phol? The Captain will make a few short remarks, then she can come in and take the stage. You can bring her in the other door, there's a break in the curtain there. Our table is on the front. Captain, I'll give you the signal when they get here."

Kirk looked at Uhura, "Yes, Ma'am. You're in charge here." He smiled. "And I'm glad of it."

"Thank you, Sir. I guess that was a compliment. Go, Len."

It was not a long walk to T'Phol's quarters. Cassady was seated in the alcove, evidently neither Andorian was planning to attend the concert. He waved at McCoy. "I have my screen tuned," he said.

"Good," McCoy said, "sorry you can't be there in person."

He paused for a few seconds before he rang, gathering his thoughts. The door swished open and he stepped through. His breath caught and his planned casual greeting stopped before he could utter it. He cleared his throat and tried again.

"I've come to escort Cinderella to the ball." He almost winced. Cinderella? So much for cultivating the graceful art of conversation, or even wooing if it was come to that.

T'Phol blinked, then the by now familiar amused eyebrow lifted.

"Does this mean you turn into a rat at midnight? Or I into a scullery maid? I seem to be missing my glass slippers."

"No, this fairy tale has a different ending. The beautiful princess and the handsome prince will dance all evening under the star light." He paused. "And you are indeed beautiful tonight. I misspoke, not Cinderella. You're Arwen half-Elven, with stars in your hair and galaxies in your eyes."

Their gazes locked, he felt the flare of connection and McCoy knew he would lose himself there. He looked away first,dragging himself back to the task at hand.

"It's time to go," he said softly. She nodded. He held his arm out and she slipped her hand through his elbow. They walked the short distance in silence. Uhura was stationed by the door watching for them. She motioned for Kirk to begin and went to seat herself. McCoy could see the edge of the stage through a slit in the curtain. Kirk welcomed the crew, spoke a moment or so about T'Phol's career, and then invited her to take the stage. The room lights dimmed. Wordlessly T'Phol handed McCoy her shawl and he walked her out to much applause. He handed her up the steps, then went to the table where Uhura, Scott and Kirk were already seated.

T'Phol bowed to the audience, her hand on the piano. Then she took her seat, and was bathed in stage light, the highlights and shadows contouring her angular features. The room hushed as she adjusted the piano bench, resting her fingertips lightly on the keys for a few seconds, and then she began.

McCoy was not surprised that she had chosen to start with Mozart. He could sense a clear difference between her informal playing and that in concert. She was pin-point focused on the essence of the music and carried the audience with her, himself included. He settled back, clearing his mind until there was only T'Phol on stage and the music. The Mozart was lighthearted, lively and delicate. It finished to enthusiastic applause, and she rose from the bench and bowed.

"Thank you. That was Five Contredanses for Orchestra, adapted for piano, along with three short minuets, by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. He wrote dances in three forms, and was known to compose them for full score in a few hours, sometimes to be performed the same day. Both he and our next composer, Ludwig van Beethoven, wrote during Earth's classical period, but Beethoven is often considered the first romantic era composer. He had lost most of his hearing by the time he composed Sonata Number. Fourteen in C-sharp minor, still one of the most popular piano pieces ever written or performed. I now present all three movements, Adigio sostenuto, Allegretto, Presto agitato. Ladies and gentlemen, The Moonlight Sonata."

McCoy supposed that many people would be familiar with The Moonlight Sonata. Several in the crowd had heard T'Phol herself playing the first movement just a few days before in the rec room, but not with this kind of focus and intensity. The first movement was gentle and soft, the second a bit more lively, but she attacked the third with an intentness and ferocity that fairly crackled around her. He found himself leaning forward, gripping her shawl he still held, watching her hands dance over the keys in a blur of motion. When the final note faded and the cheering started he breathed again, forcibly relaxing his hands. It took a minute for the noise to begin to abate. Uhura rested her hand on his arm, he absently covered it with his own, squeezing briefly. She leaned closer.

"What is in the package under the table?"

"A surprise. You'll see in a little while."

T'Phol changed the pace, playing songs from a currently running musical, and then a series of tunes that were present day hits. They were well received, particularly by the younger crew members. For McCoy, much of the emotional impact was missing from the modern work, so he relaxed and studied T'Phol's movement and expression as she played. Her style was somewhat utilitarian rather than highly embellished. She played with little wasted motion, but her arms and hands were graceful and strong, her posture erect but not rigid. She closed her eyes frequently, whether looking inward or reaching out he could not guess. He noticed the snitch traveling around the stage and about the room, floating among the audience, then his attention was drawn back to the stage as the applause quietened and T'Phol spoke.

"Now I would like to introduce two lesser known twentieth century composers. First, Italian Ludovico Einaudi, who wrote many popular soundtracks for movie and commercial entertainment of the day. Then David Lanz, an American pioneer of what came to be known as New Age Music. Both artists featured and performed solo piano extensively."

McCoy was drawn by the light and airy mood and once again lost himself in the music. At their conclusion, T'Phol removed her violin and bow from the stand, waiting for the applause to quieten. Her eyes met his for a second and he felt rather than saw her smile.

"So far tonight we have visited Earth's classical and romantic periods, current pop, and twenty-first century modern. Along with classical and romantic, baroque is part of the common practice era. Antonio Vivaldi's The Four Seasons is an iconic baroque piece, published in seventeen-twenty five. This is Autumn."

Listening to her playing violin in concert was, just as the piano, an almost completely different experience than hearing it in her cabin. McCoy thought about holding the Starry Night, and wondered if it, too, would have a more visceral reaction.

Autumn concluded, and T'Phol looked out over the audience, acknowledging the applause. She crossed the stage, turning on the Moog and turned back to address the audience.

"I have been working on a new composition since boarding the Enterprise and spending some time watching warp light. This Moog Synthesizer can reproduce the sound of many instruments, in this case, the hydrocrystalophone. This is the debut performance of The Enterprise Etude." She touched a button and a soft ethereal sound eased into the room. It was oddly compelling, almost like listening to an echo from chimes or bells being rang underwater. She both plucked the violin strings and played with the bow. In places it had a faintly discordant, uneasy tone, at other times it seemed quiet and still. At the end it soared and garnered a standing ovation which she accepted gracefully.

"Thank you for your kind welcome of that piece," she said when everyone had regained their seats. "That was originally intended to be the last number for tonight. However, I shall present one final work as an encore, one that I have never played in concert. This music was written by Ralph Vaughan Williams in England. He began it before World War One, but it remained unpublished until the war ended. It is based on a poem by George Meredith by the same name, The Lark Ascending."

She stood with eyes closed for a minute, her head down. He saw the rise and fall of her chest as she took a deep breath, placed the violin under her chin and began.

It was beautiful, at once both the saddest and most uplifting piece of music McCoy had ever heard. In his universe everything else ceased to exist and he was alone, lost in its spell. It eased his heart, shattered it, then comforted it again. Except for her violin, the room was dead silent. At some point he was aware that Uhura was gripping his hand and that he was holding hers just as tightly. He swallowed against the lump in his throat as it drew toward the close. The end notes were very soft and gentle as they faded into complete silence. T'Phol slowly lowered her instrument, her lashes making long shadows across her cheek. For a few heartbeats no one moved and there was no sound at all. Then Uhura dropped his hand and stood, clapping slowly. He looked at her. Her cheeks were wet. On her other side Scott rose to his feet and joined her. He heard a cry of "Bravo!" from the back of the room and then everyone was on their feet at once. T'Phol was very still, arms at her side. As the applause swelled, she looked up, her expression somewhere between stunned and jubilant. He rose and joined the glorious tumult. She finally took a bow, raising her arms in a triumphant salute, causing the roar to grow, then she looked at him. He did not break the contact.

Uhura reached under the table and offered the package to him. "Do you need this now?" she asked, eyes shining.

He slipped the ribbon wrapped bouquet from the box and stepped up to the edge of the stage. She put the violin on the stand, bending toward him as he placed the flowers in her arms and the audience shouted their approval. Her fingers felt cold when their hands briefly brushed together, and he shivered. He moved down to the side of the stage to stand in the shadow. The ovation went on for several minutes, he could imagine the entire ship reverberated with it. The lights came up, and Kirk climbed the steps to the stage, took her hand for another bow, then motioned to hush the room.

"I am sure you all join me in saying a heartfelt thank you to Miss Grayson for tonight's show. One word. Extraordinary. A mere thank you is insufficient."

He waited for the applause to abate.

"I was asked to remind you that a reception follows next door. Thank you for attending. Enjoy the rest of the evening." He bowed to and led her from the stage.

Uhura quickly pressed Sulu's table into crowd control duty so the throng would be channeled toward the rear door and then into the officer's mess rather than overwhelming T'Phol and to some extent, McCoy. She had clutched his hand during the encore. It was cold, just like it had been the first time T'Phol played for them, but he hadn't seemed dazed or disoriented, just deeply immersed. She wanted to be sure he was all right before they headed to the reception. For that matter, T'Phol looked a little gobsmacked as well. They were both standing near the stage steps with the Captain and Scott. She moved to join them.

McCoy was placing the shawl around T'Phol's shoulders. She was still holding the flowers. Uhura took a moment to admire them.

"What did you do?" she asked McCoy. "Raid the arboretum?"

She was relieved when he turned to her with eyes clear and sharp. "Yes, with Sulu's direction. Some of these are from his personal collection in the botany lab. I guess you noticed he decorated the stage,"

"I'm glad you thought to ask him." She looked at the others. "I am sure T'Phol needs to unwind for a minute before the reception. We could go to her quarters for a bit."

T'Phol was beginning to recover her normal composure, but she nodded gratefully at Uhura. "Yes, I could use a hot tea before greeting people."

"You go on," Kirk said. "I'm planning to put in an appearance at the party, then head back to work. Again, incredible performance, Miss Grayson." He bowed, reaching for her hand and brought it to his lips in a very formal kiss, which she took in stride. He headed to the reception, the others went out the side door to T'Phol's cabin. Cassady was still on duty and began applauding as soon as he saw them approach. T'Phol paused to thank him before palming her door open.

The four of them filled the cabin. Uhura took the flowers and stepped out. McCoy pulled a chair over for T'Phol to sit, programmed the tea and handed it to her. She cupped her hands around it, savoring the warmth on her chilled fingers. He leaned against the counter and and watched her, folding his hands under his arms. Scott produced a PADD from somewhere and began reviewing the snitch video.

Uhura returned without the flowers. "Cass is getting a vase for them," she said to T'Phol. She leaned closer. "Lark Ascending was the most beautiful thing I've ever heard."

"Aye," Scott said. "Ye brought a tear to my eye with that one, Lass."

"I imagine there were lots of tears in that room, including mine," Uhura said. "It was sublime, simply astounding."

T'Phol inclined her head. "Thank you." She cradled her cup, taking another sip. "It was a remarkable experience. The choice to add it to the program was the correct one."

She finished her tea just as Cassady returned with the flowers, now arranged in a tall glass vase. McCoy set them on the counter beside him, plucking a white bloom from the bunch. He inhaled the fragrance and offered it to T'Phol.

"It's gardenia," he said. "Sulu can tell you the exact genus and variety. They smell like home."

"You should wear it," Uhura said, reaching for her bag. She rummaged for a pin, then attached the blossom near her temple. T'Phol touched it lightly with her fingertips, then stood, adjusting the wrap about her shoulders. She looked at each of them.

"Thank you for the interlude, my friends, and for this evening. If you are ready, shall we attend the reception?"

McCoy offered his arm. His hands were warm.


	23. Chapter 23

They walked into the officer's mess to more applause. McCoy released her and T'Phol took another bow. People began moving forward to greet her. He stepped back and watched her for a few minutes. Uhura appeared beside him and took his hand, giving it a quick squeeze. He raised a brow and she patted his arm.

"Just checking. Go get something to eat, and don't be a wallflower." She moved into the crowd, laughter and hugs following her as usual. Uhura was popular and gregarious, as well as kind, gorgeous and brilliant. People naturally gravitated to her and she would usually be found at the center of the group.

McCoy turned to Scott, who looked about as thrilled with the prospect of mingling as he did himself. "Come on, Scotty. Let's see what's on the menu."

The food consisted of assorted canapes and fruit and vegetable platters, and a dessert table along with various spritzers. They both filled a plate and navigated to the corner out of the flow. He had not eaten since toast at breakfast so he finished his plate rather quickly. Scott picked at his a bit, then tossed most of it away uneaten. McCoy chuckled. He did not mind eating lighter fare, but Scott like his meat and heavy carbohydrates. The engineer held up the flute of sparkling water and shook his head. "Tis nae a drink, either," he said ruefully.

"This menu has been tailored to the Vulcan palate," McCoy told him. "You can grab something later if you must. You've put on a pound or two. It wouldn't hurt you to eat more like this."

"An' it wouldn't hurt you to have a plate o' black pudding, eggs, and neeps and tatties. Yer as skinny as a snake. But I might be able to find a wee drop of something to liven up the punch." He patted the sporran hanging from his kilt.

"Home brew or Scotch?"

"Not only is it Scotch, but it is Scotch from my stash of old reserve. After all, it's a special occasion."

"It's tempting, but I think I'll pass this time. Hold the thought, though."

Scott watched the doctor's eyes follow T'Phol and nodded. "Aye, I see. Yer keeping a clear head for T'Phol. I dinnae blame ye for that. Lassie is sweet on you, ye ken?"

McCoy's head snapped around to look at Scott, but there was no duplicity there, just the gentle fondness that was his friend's hallmark. He sighed. "Maybe you're right." He tugged on his shirt collar. "Or maybe I'm being a fool."

Scott frowned. "Nay, why would ye think that?"

"What would she see in a cranky old guy like me? But..." He shrugged. "She enjoys my company."

"Aye. And ye enjoy hers. Nothing wrong with that." His eyes narrowed. "Yer sellin' yerself short, Len." He drew himself up straighter. "And we are _not_ old. O' course, ye are older than me."

"By a month and a few days. Doesn't count."

"Aye." Scott nodded and turned up the glass of water, finishing it. "I am not old, so you are not old. Now you get it." He gestured toward T'Phol with the empty glass. "That bonnie lass has taken a fancy for you. What have ye to lose?"

"Gentlemen, gentlemen." Uhura was approaching, looking a bit peeved. "I asked both of you to circulate and not hold up the wall all night. But here you are, stacked in the corner like Spican flat slats. You're wasting all this handsome on each other. Come with me, please." She took Scott's empty glass from his hand and set it aside, taking his elbow and holding out her hand for McCoy to take the other arm. "I'm claiming Scotty for the evening," she said to McCoy, "but don't worry. I'm sure you won't be lonely."

Uhura led them through the room and into the group surrounding T'Phol. She and Chekov were discussing the merits of Russian composers as Sulu, Chapel, M'Benga, and a couple of nurses looked on.

"Rachmaninov was compelling as a character as well as a composer," she was saying to Chekov. "Dark, brooding, passionate, and he dearly loved and missed his homeland. He also had huge hands. His pieces can be difficult to play. You might enjoy his choral symphony, The Bells, sung in Russian, of course. And his Piano Concerto Number Two in C minor is a thing of beauty. Then there is Tchaikovsky, particularly his final work, Symphony Number Six in B minor."

"Ahhh, brooding and passionate, everything a good Russian should be," agreed Chekov. Beside him, Sulu rolled his eyes.

"According to this one," he said to T'Phol, "Russians always do things first and best."

"There is no doubt Russia has indeed produced some of the finest composers ever heard," said T'Phol mildly. At that, Chekov looked pleased and Sulu laughed.

"Don't encourage this, please. I have to sit beside him."

Chekov punched him good-naturedly in the arm.

"Now boys, behave in front of our guest," Uhura said. She unhooked her arm from McCoy's and gently propelled him forward to stand beside T'Phol.

"Tonight's selection was exclusively Terran. Do you travel off Vulcan now?" M'Benga asked. "I wondered if you find it easier to play to human audiences than Vulcan."

"Terran music for a Terran audience. I am half Earth Human, trained on Earth, playing Earth instruments. I travel to Earth once or twice in a year for some select concert dates." McCoy heard a terseness in her reply, not enough to be rude but still perceptible. He could tell by the tilt of M'Benga's head that he was not finished with the subject. He saw T'Phol's shoulders tense as he wondered how he might diffuse the situation.

But M'Benga was perceptive as well. "Tonight's work was exceptional, and I am particularly glad I was here to witness The Lark Ascending. Congratulations on a performance well done." He took a small step closer, smiling slightly. "I mean that, T'Phol. Extraordinary." McCoy shot a grateful eye in his direction.

T'Phol bowed her head a bit, relaxing, then met his eyes. "Thank you, Doctor M'Benga." She paused. "You may be the only person aboard who has seen me in concert before," she added.

He recognized it for the peace offering it was. "If so, it is my good fortune." He looked at the others. "I have an early shift, so I will bid you each a good evening and pleasant night." He left at his customarily hurried pace.

McCoy went to the refreshment table and got a glass of sparkling water, offering it to T'Phol, who took it, drinking thirstily. He grinned. "Want another?"

"Please." She sipped on the second one as they made a round through the room. "Schmoozing," T'Phol whispered to him at one point. He chuckled. For someone who actually seemed somewhat reserved, she was very good at it, much better at making small talk than he.

Another hour passed as they visited and circulated through both rooms. Eventually the crowd thinned. McCoy was a little weary. If T'Phol was tired, she showed no sign, but when the hall was almost empty she turned to him.

"Have you eaten? I am hungry."

"I had a bite at the refreshment table. Come on, let's get you fed."

T'Phol filled a plate and got another drink. McCoy got coffee for himself and a sweet roll for them both. They sat at a deserted table in the main mess. The gallery crew was clearing the tables as the room emptied. Uhura and Scott were saying goodnight to the last remaining crew members. Then Uhura quickly grabbed a plate from what was left of the buffet and they came over and sat.

Uhura groaned, slipping her feet out of her shoes and wiggling her toes. "This is what three inch heels do for you," she said to T'Phol. "Be glad you don't wear them." She popped a piece of fruit into her mouth. Scott removed a small flask from a pouch and opened the lid, offering it to Uhura. She laughed.

"What are we, plebe cadets?" A pause. "What's in it?"

"My best Scotch," he replied.

"Oh. Well then." She took it from his hand and had a swallow, then offered it to T'Phol. "Here you go. We can pretend we're teenagers ditching class and drinking behind the gymnasium."

T'Phol raised a dubious eyebrow, but took the flask with a slight shrug. "I have never had Scotch. I suppose there is no time like the present." She turned it up, making a face, but swallowed. They each took turns until it was empty.

Uhura and T'Phol ate as the clean-up crew finished and departed, leaving the room to themselves. When they were done, Scott lifted Uhura's feet into his lap without comment and began kneading them. She stretched and sighed. "This has been a good evening." She sat up straighter, looking at T'Phol. "I am curious about something. May I ask you a personal question?"

"It is indeed a good evening. And yes, you may ask."

"Can you tell beforehand that your performance will be extraordinary?"

T'Phol steepled her fingers in a familiar gesture. "Do you mean a premonition or something of the sort? In that case, no."

"Not exactly a premonition, but maybe the knowledge that you are well prepared, perhaps the right audience is primed, and everything will come together like it did tonight. Does that happen every time you perform?"

"Not every time." She took a deep breath, expelling it slowly. "You are referring to the final piece, of course, and not the entire program. Tonight's performance was solid enough, and well appreciated by a very kind and undemanding audience. But it was unexceptional except for Lark Ascending. That kind of response is not common, at least for me. I have experienced it that strongly only once before. In a good performance, the visceral reaction is there, but to a lesser degree. That sort of connection with the audience is necessary to be a successful entertainer of any kind. It is one reason there are very few Vulcan virtuosos within the performing arts."

"But yer a Vulcan," Scott said.

"I am half Human. And I have struggled with expression and involvement, especially early in my career as a child performer."

"I'd certainly call it an emotional reaction," Uhura said. "I think everyone who was there would agree. You definitely made that connection tonight."

"Effusive," McCoy said quietly. "It was pouring out, streaming. I could feel it."

T'Phol looked at him with a sideways glance, then averted her eyes back to Uhura. "I cannot predict when it might happen. Several factors must be present at once. The technical quality of the performance itself is not the only variable. In fact, it may be the least important component. "

Uhura flexed her foot in Scott's grasp. "Ahhhh, that feels wonderful, Dear Heart." She turned back to T'Phol. "You made me cry. Now, that's not so hard to do. But I wasn't the only one."

"I interpreted the score from a composer who is three hundred years in the grave. I was the intermediary, a catalyst. You were moved by Ralph Vaughan Williams. His was the substance, mine the voice."

Uhura shook her head. "Semantics. That was some interpretation. An _emotional_ interpretation. Don't you think the artist has to feel it before the audience can feel it?"

"I think it is reciprocal. You were receptive and willing to be released. Do you cry at movies?"

"Aye," Scott said. "That she does."

Uhura kicked his arm. "You do, too, you big softie."

"In terms of emotional reaction there is no difference."

"I disagree," McCoy said. "Movies are designed to manipulate the viewer's emotions, using both overt and subliminal methods. Watching a movie is a lot more passive than listening to music. Essentially movies are a button pusher. Music incites more brain activity by far and requires more participation, and of a more personal nature. Maybe both can evoke a response, but they do so by different physiology. Music speaks to the brain in a primitive, emotional language. It is processed first in the cerebellum and amygdala rather than the frontal lobes."

"Movies and music differ only in the delivery vehicle and the vernacular. Humans are emotional creatures. Everything seems designed to manipulate emotions from infancy to dotage. Every interaction, music included. Humans are often held hostage by their emotional dependency."

McCoy rubbed his neck. "Manipulation is not the only way Humans exercise their emotions. Nor is manipulative behavior limited to Humans."

"It certainly is not," Scott said with some emphasis. "Ye remember Kang and the energy being that fed from hostile emotion?"

"Over a year ago, the Enterprise encountered a type of energy, possibly a life form, that exacerbated hatred and hostility and facilitated an arena for endless battle so it could feed on the negative emotional energy from us and the Klingons," Uhura said to answer T'Phol's questioning look.

McCoy's face darkened. The aftermath of that incident had proven difficult for him in particular. Coming to accept the fact that he could be induced to feel murderous rage was one problem, forgiving himself was quite another. He shifted in his chair uneasily. "Let's change the subject to something more pleasant. I've heard newly hatched Karthelian thread worms can eat their way through a human's large intestine in less than a minute."

Uhura and T'Phol stared at him as Scott guffawed.

"That elicits a definite emotional reaction," Uhura said. "Mainly ewwwww."

"I think that response could be classified as a gut feeling," T'Phol said drily.

The three humans laughed.

"Nae let it be said Vulcans have no sense of humor," Scott said when he had recovered his breath. "Even if it was a terrible alcohol induced pun."

"Spock has a great, subtle sense of humor when you get to know him," Uhura said.

"Yeah, but he would deny it 'til the cows come home," McCoy drawled. "'It's not logical." He looked at T'Phol. "Maybe he should have a snort of Scotch occasionally. He says his ancestors were 'spared the dubious effects of alcohol'. But I have seen him take a drink a time or two."

"Unlike Spock, I have not quite been spared," T'Phol said. "I have been inebriated before. Never behind the gymnasium, though."

McCoy chuckled. "Well, _I_ have."

"We do not want to hear about that, Len. Some things are better left untold," Uhura said firmly.

Their talk left serious subjects behind and they chatted for a while longer. It was getting late when Uhura stifled a yawn for the third time in a few minutes. Scott looked a little droopy eyed, too. Then the gamma shift engineering crew arrived to begin dismantling the stage to put the mess hall back to normal before breakfast. They got up and waited as Scott had a short conference with them. When he was finished, T'Phol closed the Moog in its box and collected her violin from the stand, putting it in the case, and they walked into the corridor and out of the crew's way.

"I guess that was our hint that the night is growing old," Uhura said. "Thanks for the great evening, you guys." She kissed McCoy on the cheek, then T'Phol. "You'll just have to excuse the familiarity, T'Phol. My manners have been compromised," she whispered.

"It is quite all right," T'Phol answered. "I understand Scotch is responsible for compromising many things besides manners. Good night."

Uhura laughed and turned to Scott. "Would this fine gentleman like to walk me to my room?"

Scott gently beamed. "Aye, Lass, my pleasure. G'night, then." He nodded to McCoy and T'Phol, and put his arm around Uhura's waist. She was barefoot, carrying her shoes and together they walked down the corridor and boarded the lift.

T'Phol watched until the lift took them away. She turned to McCoy.

"Are they involved in a – relationship?"

He turned a palm up. "Sometimes. It's an off-on thing. Most of the time they're just friends. Now? I'm really not sure. The amazing thing is they're able to go back and forth and remain buddies all the time. Two of the finest people I know. I hope they end up together and happy."

"Nyota is very perceptive."

"Yes. She certainly sees through me."

"You are close."

McCoy looked at her, speculatively. "She and Scotty and Jim are more than comrades to me. I love 'em. And Spock, too. But don't tell him I said that."

"Very well. Is there a reason you do not want him to know?"

"He knows."

T'Phol raised a brow. "I do not understand."

McCoy smiled. "It's late. I'll walk you to your room."


	24. Chapter 24

The gamma shift guard nodded as they passed the alcove. T'Phol opened the door and entered but McCoy hesitated, stopping in the doorway. She put the violin case on the counter and gathered the bags strewn across the bunk.. She looked back at him.

"Come in. I could use a snack and a cup of hot tea. Please join me."

"It's pretty late. Maybe I should go."

"Are you turning into a rat after all? You promised a night of dancing under the stars."

"T'Phol..." He sighed and stepped inside, the door closing behind him. "Maybe you'd better make us that tea."

She did and handed him a cup. "This is a Vulcan spice tea. It has a relaxing quality and is often consumed before rest or meditation. Yours has sugar."

He took a cautious sip. The taste was spicy and a bit sharp. It reminded him of the cloves and nutmeg in his Grandma's pumpkin muffins.

She took a sip and set the cup down. "If we are not going to dance the night away, I am going to change clothes."

He looked at his cup. "Go ahead and change," he said, more gruffly than he meant. "I'll wait," he added.

She stepped into the bathroom. In a short while she emerged wearing a pair of sweatpants, a thick green shirt that hung shapelessly to her knees, and bright pink fuzzy socks. Her hair was unbound, hanging thick and glossy in waves across her shoulders and down her back. She hung the gown on the closet hook and pulled the other chair near his, taking up her tea. She laid the gardenia she had taken from her hair on the tabletop. The scent drifted to him as he watched her. She finally set her cup down and looked at him directly, almost challenging.

"Cinderella is back in her rags," she said.

"Every scullery should have it as good."

"You seem to be well versed in fairy tales of one sort or another. You were familiar with the Golden Snitch."

"Grandma liked fairy tales. I remember her reading The Hobbit to me before I could read it for myself. I read a lot as a kid. I reckon you did, too. You knew about the Nazgul."

"Reading was my escape. Fortunately my tutor was lenient and allowed me to read whatever I wanted. Tolkien could be passed as English Literature. Grimm was more difficult to explain. I had to hide Harry Potter. I had a secret tablet loaded with books."

"Most parents would be delighted with a child who wanted to read."

"Frivolous reading took away from study and practice time. So I read at night when I was supposed to be sleeping. Vulcans do not require as much sleep as Humans."

McCoy looked at her thoughtfully. "You endured an entire childhood adhering to a strict regimen, yet it didn't damage your love for playing."

T'Phol lifted a shoulder in a small shrug. "The regimen developed my technical ability, the Rage kept me focused on the music, at least when I wanted to be. I had no love for the concert stage when I was young. Performing in public was always an arduous struggle."

"You said you had trouble relating to the audience as a child. Obviously you have no problem there now, so I'm guessing the Rage didn't help with that. Is it still a part of you, or do you have a different motivation as an adult?"

"The Rage will always be in me. It is not as demanding as it used to be. I am still driven to play, audience or not, but I can now find fulfillment in their participation and reaction. When I was a child, I played at them because it was what I had to do. I feel the connection now."

"This 'connection', do some people feel it more than others?" McCoy sensed her sudden wariness.

"The response varies from person to person, of course."

"Yes." He weighed his words carefully. "But you facilitate the process somehow, don't you? And I seem to be affected more than others." His eyes were on her, brilliant and intense as he waited for her to speak. She looked away for a moment, then took a breath and met his gaze again.

"It is not exactly facilitation. I do not enter anyone's brain or manipulate or sway emotions in any way. I am not some sort of musical Vampire sucking the soul from my audience. I call it a Tap. It is not invasive."

McCoy tilted his head a bit, his gaze still sharp. That doesn't explain why twice now I have had a strong physiological and emotional response to your playing."

"Three times," T'Phol said slowly. "The Aura-Lumina reacted very strongly with you, more than I have ever seen or heard of. It was actually hot where you were touching it."

McCoy's brow creased. "Tell me about your Tap."

"I discovered it when I was fourteen. At the Brahms concert at Musikverein, in Vienna."

McCoy nodded. "I found that concert on video and watched it."

"I have been told some of the experience comes through, even on tape."

"It does. You haven't seen it?" He was surprised.

She shook her head. "I have no need to watch it in replay. I was there. Every moment is still etched in my memory, every feeling." Her eyes glinted a bit. "The mistakes as well. There are two of them. It was the first time in years I made a fingering error in an actual concert. And yet it did not matter."

"You looked fierce," McCoy said softly. "Like a warrior, then triumphant, as if you had won a battle that night."

"Not a battle. The war." She drew herself up straighter. "I will tell you about finding the Tap. I have never spoken of it to Amanda or Sarek, or even to Spock, only to my teachers on Vulcan.

"There were two concerts in Vienna. Brahms at Musikverein was the second. The first was the day before, at a smaller venue, Kursalon Wien. I played Beethoven's Emperor Concerto on piano with the City Symphony. It was no different than any of the others, the orchestra was competent, my own performance was without error."

She paused. "I told you about growing tall and gangly so quickly. Before that, being a child was some protection from overly harsh critique, and possibly from honest review, too. I never read them, but my mother certainly did, and kept me informed of the content. I had been praised for my precision and technique in fingering and reaching or interpreting difficult chords. Only occasionally had it been mentioned that my performances lacked emotional connection. One reviewer called it 'falling short in luster', another used the term 'limited nuance'. Gentle terms. The Beethoven review was not sparing or kind. It was written by Gristwallen, a famous critic, and published in Musical Happenings the following morning, but Mother did not see it until just before concert time that evening. We had a terrible row backstage."

T'Phol's eyes grew distant as she quoted from memory. " 'There is no question that young Polthea of Altaire is well armed in technique and flawless in the mechanical execution of even demanding pieces. Her performance of Beethoven No. 5, E-flat Major, Op. 73 was mechanically sound, every note arranged in its proper position. Unfortunately technical prowess is not enough to carry a performance, capture the true essence of a piece, or move an audience. I would compare her presentation this evening with listening to an advanced student practice scales. It demonstrates dexterity, but leaves the listener completely unmoved.'

"I will not repeat it all. There was more about the unsuitability of my technique to the piece and speculative questioning if being Vulcan meant I was incapable of feeling the impact of the music itself or inciting a genuine response from an audience.

"Thirty minutes before orchestra call, she was confronting me with the paper, upset about the review. So I told her every word of it was true. Our disagreement escalated into a loud argument. Among other things, she essentially accused me of being Vulcan on purpose. The conductor had her removed from back stage. I was furious, almost shaking, but I regained my control before concert time. Right before we walked out on stage, the conductor looked at me with with pity in his eyes, and my Rage grew cold. It was almost an out of body experience. I walked onto the stage, did the greetings, took the bow, but it was as if someone else was working my body.

"Brahms One makes the pianist sit at the beginning. While I was waiting, I saw the Tap line for the first time. It was faint at first, but as I began to visualize it, it grew."

She looked away before continuing. "It is hard to describe what it is. Imagine a two way path with energy flowing from performer to audience on one side, and from audience to performer on the other. In the middle is where the interaction occurs, where the giving and taking happen. All the color is there, it transforms constantly, twisting, swelling, ebbing. I send a tendril from my mind to anchor there, my Tap. That first time the line was bright, strong, radiant. I do not know why everyone could not see it. I almost got swept away by its seductive nature. At that point, I was not strong or knowledgeable enough to control my involvement.

"After the performance, when I had time to consider the implications, I was frightened by its power. I had the idea my father could teach me how to use it without becoming lost within it. But when I found him and saw what he was doing, how he exploits others using his own psi power, I knew I could never tell him about the Tap. I fear it is similar to the force he uses to bend people to his will. He still believes I am almost psi null. So I left him and went to Vulcan. I had some catching up to do in learning how to harness my psi ability, including the Tap. Fortunately, I am a good student and fast learner. I had years of lax training to overcome." She huffed in what might have been a chuckle or a growl. "At least Gristwallen had to eat his words. He was at Musikverein that night, too. Mother never mentioned the second review. But I read it."

She fell silent, taking a swallow of her neglected tea, now cold. McCoy got up and ordered a fresh one and a coffee for himself.

"Here, trade." He took the cold tea from her hand and gave her the hot. He sipped his coffee, digesting T'Phol's story and thinking about his own peculiar vulnerability to mind tampering. He seemed to be a beacon to entities who mucked about in people's heads. He wondered sometimes how much his own real self had been altered by exposure to those foreign invaders, perhaps even through his few voluntary mind melds with Spock. And the forced meld by Mirror Spock his dark place added. He pushed that thought back down with savage force.

T'Phol laid her hand on his arm. "You look pained."

"I'm all right. Bad memories. I've had a few experiences with mind control before. In space, all kinds of things are out to kill you, or control you, or both."

T'Phol looked stricken. "Do you think I am trying to control your mind?"

He felt her grip tighten on his arm. He set his coffee down and covered her hand with his own. Her fingers were cool against his. "No, no. Whatever is happening between you and me, whether it's the Tap or something different, it's nothing like what I was thinking about just then. Believe me."

"I have no explanation, but I feel it at other times also, this connection between us."

McCoy traced her radial process with his thumb and drew her hand close to him. "I think that other connection is easier to explain." He kissed her then, tasting Scotch and Vulcan spice, felt her initial surprise before she leaned into him, willing, responding. It had been a long time for him, but he kept it gentle, almost chaste, then drew back. T'Phol stood, pulling him to his feet. She was taller, he tilted his head up to her as she initiated another kiss, deeper, an inquiry that began to demand. She broke away, adjusting her position to press fully against him. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glowed softly as she freed a hand to stroke his hair and trailed her fingers down his jaw, touching his carotid artery, feeling the rush of pulse in his neck. It was much slower than her own, but still pounding.

"I probably should leave now," McCoy whispered, his voice low and gravelly.

"I would much rather you stay. I need to tell you how good you smell, how handsome you are in your uniform, how blue your eyes appear." She fumbled at his collar. "Never-the-less, I would like you to be out of it."

He gently took her hand. "There's something you need to understand before we go further."

She stilled, stopped by his seriousness. "Tell me."

"Sex is no longer a casual thing for me. I won't use you and I won't be used. I need you. I'm not a taker, but I don't know what is left in me to give. I'm pretty sure I'm not what you think I am. I don't even know who I am sometimes."

"I trust you, Leonard. Can you trust me? Or yourself? If not, you had better go."

Time shimmered around them as she felt him inhale and exhale before he spoke.

"Lights, twenty percent."

He reached between them and unfastened his shirt.


	25. Chapter 25

M'Benga was on duty when McCoy arrived in Sickbay that morning, busy discharging an Ensign from Cartography who had reported with a migraine.

While he waited to take report, McCoy got a coffee, changed his long sleeved shirt for a scrub, and called up the day schedule in his office, stifling a yawn. He had dozed for a few minutes just before time to get up, comfortably wrapped in T'Phol's embrace, her hair fanning across his shoulder and her breath soft against his neck. He didn't think she had slept at all; she watched from under the covers as he got up and slipped into his clothes to make the trek to his own quarters. He had barely enough time to shower and throw on a fresh uniform and hurry to Sickbay. No stranger to functioning on short sleep, he knew he would be more awake as the morning progressed and he got involved in the work routine.

He heard Chapel come in and presently M'Benga tapped on the open door ready with PADD in hand. McCoy motioned him in and took the tablet, glancing at the report. M'Benga took a seat across from him and regarded him with an air of amusement. McCoy looked up from the report.

"Your mama didn't teach you not to stare?"

M'Benga shrugged, a little smile playing across his features. "Sorry. How was your evening?"

McCoy's eyebrows drew together in a scowl. "My evening was fine, Geoff. How was yours?"

"I enjoyed the concert."

"Yeah." He signed the report and pushed it to the side. "Thank you for not needling T'Phol last night."

M'Benga sighed. "It was not my intention to make her uncomfortable. I mean her no harm. It is true that I would like to talk with her about her path since she returned to performing. Informally, of course, not to publish." He shook his head. "She overcame quite a lot of adversity to have success as an adult, especially being Vulcan in an area that sees very few."

"Maybe she finds it hard to talk about."

"Maybe she does. I won't approach her again, but if she'd like to talk about it, I'd like to hear. You can tell her." He got up from his chair. "Well, I'm off to my racquetball game. You have a good day." He hurried from the office, tossing a greeting at Chapel as he passed. McCoy followed him into the front office.

"Morning, Chris." He leaned a hip on her desk.

"Good morning, Doctor." She looked up from her PADD, her professional smile becoming wider. "Apparently your evening went well." She ducked her head to hide her grin.

McCoy crossed his arms. "Doctor M'Benga was laughing at me, too. What is it? Do I have a brand on my forehead or something?"

Chapel looked at him in fond amusement. "Not on your forehead anyway. Go look in the treatment room mirror."

She heard his footsteps travel across the room, then his quiet curse, followed by rummaging in the cabinet drawers. "There's a dermal regenerater in the third one down on the right," she called.

A few minutes later he reappeared, flushed and smiling sheepishly. "I guess the scrub's collar doesn't cover as much. Uh, thanks."

Chapel nodded. He was grateful when she went straight into the day's schedule without further comment. He was busy with several mandated physicals, treating a small chemical burn from one of the science labs, and getting the supplies ready for delivery to the clinic on Aminta. It was late afternoon by the time he finished. He signed off to Sanchez, debating how much energy reserve he had. He decided on food first, as he had not eaten since the evening before. He went to gather T'Phol for their customary supper meal. Sama and Cassady were both in the alcove. Cassady waved him over.

"Mister Scott asks if any special medical precautions will be necessary to move Vartheb off the ship tomorrow?"

"I don't see why he can't leave the same way he came on. He can't be burning that stuff, of course. Get someone from environmental science down here to scan him first, make sure he's not contaminated. Hazmat precaution. In fact, scan everything, including Kelan and their equipment." He paused. "How are they?"

"No issues at last check-in."

McCoy shook his head. "I'll be glad when they're off our ship. All right, boys, carry on."

T'Phol was sitting cross legged on the floor with the Moog keyboard, several data chips, and a PADD. The Moog was open on the table, lights flashing. She held up a finger in a wait a minute gesture. He paused to look at the Aura-Lumina, quiet and dark in its stand. He wanted to pick it up, but went to sit on the bunk instead. He laid back against the pillows, watching her through half closed eyes as she concentrated on her task. She presently either finished or reached a stopping point and scooted across the floor to him. He reached out and touched a loose strand of her hair, twirling it around his finger. "Hi, Gorgeous."

She laid her hand on his chest. "Hi, yourself. Apparently you made it through your day."

"Oh, yeah. A little tired, but I'm all right. Thought you might want to go get a bite to eat. Did you rest today?"

"If by rest you mean sleep, then no. I did meditate for a while. Most of the day I have spent loading comm protocol into the Moog. It has to interface with three different formats on Aminta. I just finished the last one."

McCoy smiled. "Perfect timing." He pulled her closer for a minute, then sat up. "Are you ready?"

They ate in the officer's mess. As they finished, they were joined by Uhura, Sulu, Chekov, and Tamura. They were a lively group, laughing and chatting. McCoy mostly watched and listened to the younger crew. Their energy reminded him of how tired he was and their youth made him feel old. There was more than a decade between him and Uhura, and Chekov was only a little older than his own daughter. He gave himself a mental shake before he progressed into full blown maudlin self indulgence, bringing his attention back to the conversation. They were discussing the previous evening's concert and the possibility of one more impromptu jam session before the ship reached Aminta.

"Everyone had such a great time before. Kyle is up for another run, and a couple of others want to give it a go, too." Uhura looked at McCoy. "You should join us with your guitar, Len."

T'Phol looked at him in surprise. "You did not mention you play guitar."

McCoy waved his hand dismissively. "It's good finger exercise for dexterity and strength."

"He's very good," Uhura said, turning to T'Phol. "He doesn't share that skill often, though. You've already been so generous, I don't want to keep imposing. But are you interested in participating in another session?"

"Certainly. Recreational playing is a great pleasure and no imposition. This time you may have the MC duties."

"That's fine," Uhura said. "Shall we meet in about an hour in rec room five?"

McCoy and T'Phol left the others to finish their meals. She stopped him in the corridor.

"Will you play? I would like to hear if you are not too exhausted."

McCoy rubbed his face. "I don't know. Let's go to my quarters and I'll think about it."

He let them in, then turned to her, holding his arms in invitation. They held each other for a minute. Then he let go and reached underneath his bed for the guitar case. He took it out and handed it to T'Phol.

"Have a look while I freshen up." He grabbed some clothes from a drawer and went into the bathroom. T'Phol sat on the edge of his bunk and admired the guitar. It was an old Martin, in very good condition, well cared for and inviting. She angled it so the intricate bird and flower design on the pickboard reflected the light. The same design was inlaid on the neck. The label was signed and indicated number thirty-one in a limited edition of fifty. She tuned it and was softly playing when he emerged. She looked at him, shaking her head.

"This is a fabulous instrument. Surely you do more with it than exercise your fingers, Doctor. There are things you are not telling me."

He shrugged and sat beside her. "I wasn't keeping it a secret. Lots of people own and play guitars. I didn't realize I was so singular."

"Not singular, but unusual. This is a special edition Martin, among the finest steel string acoustic guitars ever made. If I am not mistaken, this one is vintage, certainly prior to twenty-one hundred?" She paused, taking a closer look at him. He had changed into jeans and a button up shirt in light blue, tucked in but no belt. The sleeves were rolled halfway up his arms, and his feet were slid into loafers without socks. His hair was damp and a little wavy. She knew he was tired, but his eyes were bright and he carried himself with his usual relaxed and easy movements.

"Twenty thirty-five. It's a Fourth Series Purple Martin. This belonged to my great-Grandpa's grandpa. He was alive during First Contact. As far as I know, I was the first in our family to really play it since he died. I also have his handmade mandolin at the farm, but I don't play." He looked at T'Phol, his smile crinkles deepening. "Playing guitar is supposed to be a girl magnet, so naturally I was eager to learn. Daddy wouldn't let me take this one out of the house. I discovered lesser guitars are not as effective in attracting the fairer sex. Or maybe it was me."

T'Phol leaned close to him, touching the little waves at his temple. "I do not think it was you." She traced her fingers along his jaw feeling the roughness of his emerging beard stubble. "No, definitely the guitar was defective. This one seems to work just fine." She nuzzled into his neck, felt his shiver. He stroked her hair, then straightened away.

"It is almost time to go. And I'm not a young buck any more," he added ruefully. "I _might_ muster enough energy to play a bit, only because you and Uhura asked. I'll probably crash after that." He reached into the bedside table and took a pick from the drawer, slipping it into his pocket. He stood, offering a hand to T'Phol, and hung the guitar over his shoulder.

* * *

The rec room was already crowded. Kyle had his clarinet, Uhura's lyre was unwrapped on a table. Lieutenant Painter was taking a flute from its case, and Chekov held an odd looking stringed instrument that resembled an small, oval banjo, but with only three strings. T'Phol approached him immediately, curious about an instrument that was new to her. She accepted his offer to inspect it, experimenting with a scale or two before handing it back to him.

Uhura crossed the room to greet them, her smile wide.

"I don't know how you did it, but thank you for convincing him to bring his guitar. I haven't heard him play in ages and most in here have never heard him at all. I'm calling Scotty. If Len can do it, so can he." She went to the comm unit.

"Great," McCoy complained. "Scotty will be pissed at me for a week." He got a cup of coffee and sat, watching T'Phol confer with the crew members and look at their music scores. Uhura returned from her call, looking a little smug.

"He says he'll do it, but he's not getting dressed up in regalia. You look spiffy tonight."

"Yeah, I wanted to look the part. You know, scruffy rock star. From three hundred years ago. Minus the drugs and fame. And the groupies, dammit."

"I can probably round up some screaming fans." She studied him closely "You look beat. Are you all right?"

He smiled. "Ya know what? I am tired. And I feel pretty good."

"I am glad to hear you say that. We'll talk later." She patted his hand and waved at someone across the room. He sat back, relaxed and observing. Something moved in his peripheral vision and he glanced up to see the drone hovering near the ceiling. Tamura was standing just inside in the door, controlling the flight. He motioned her over.

"You're taping tonight?"

Tamura nodded. "Uhura is going to ask each participant if they object. I'd like to post it later on intra-ship. I have the edited result ready from last night. I thought I would present it to T'Phol first." She looked at his guitar. "That is beautiful. May I record you?"

He hesitated, then nodded. "I'd like a copy when you get it put together. Unless I screw up. Then I want every copy destroyed. The Snitch, too." He chuckled at her incredulous expression. "Never mind. We'll see how it goes." She nodded and moved away with a last doubtful glance.

Scott appeared from behind and thumped down into the chair next to him. He was holding his bagpipes and looking tired himself as well as a bit put out.. "Thanks," he said glumly. "She woulda left me alone er fer you."

"Sorry. I didn't exactly volunteer, but they both asked and I couldn't say no. They'll be busy when we get to Aminta tomorrow. If I can do it, you can, too."

"Aye, but yer good."

McCoy shrugged. "I'm no entertainer."

Scott muttered something in Gaelic that McCoy didn't understand, although the meaning came through without translation.

The rec room was filled to standing room only as Uhura made her way over to their table. T'Phol sat at the piano

"We are ready. Len, are you OK with going last?" She leaned closer. "You might be a little intimidating to follow."

"Aye," Scott said. " _I'll_ nae be goin' on the stage after him. In fact, I'll go first and start yer program. Then I can enjoy the rest."

McCoy shrugged. "It doesn't matter, I'm good for a while longer. If I pass out, shove me under a table until it's time. But I'll need a stool. And the mike on."

Scott snorted. "I dinnae need a mike." He looked at Uhura. "I'm ready. Let's get it done."

Uhura patted his arm. "You'll do fine." She stepped up on the stage and introduced the engineer as the first performer.

Scott went up front, looking uncomfortable. He made a self-conscious bow to the applause. "This is my Granda's Great Highland Pipe. I'll play Scotland the Brave fer ye tonight."

He blew into the mouthpiece, the drones commenced buzzing, and he began. The soulful sound filled the room with the old patriotic Scottish song. He finished and his fellow crew members appreciated his performance with warm and eager applause and cheers. Scott was touched and encouraged, and was persuaded to play another, choosing Amazing Grace. He played one verse, then Uhura motioned for a repeat and she led the audience in a sing along. McCoy was surprised how many people knew the words. Another enthusiastic response followed, making Scott's lead-off performance a rousing success. He bowed, bashful but pleased and took his seat beside McCoy.

Kyle was next, playing Dubussy on his clarinet accompanied by T'Phol on the piano. They were followed by Painter's flute and Aria from Bach's Goldberg Variations. Uhura sang twice, both modern songs, once with her Vulcan lyre, and once with the piano. One of the night shift sickbay nurses also sang, and did a good job, although following Uhura was not the position McCoy would have chosen if he had been singing. An ensign from astrophysics did a pop song on the piano. Then Chekov took the stage with his domra. He did a Russian folk song, a familiar and lively tune. What he may have lacked in technique he more than made up for in cheerful fervor, especially when he did a Cossack dance at the end to a delighted audience.

Uhura stepped up on the stage, laughing and clapping as Chekov caught his breath. "That was wonderful, Pavel. I am sure the Chekov fan club will meet in the corner later tonight!"

Chekov bowed in a sweeping gesture, flushed and grinning. "De fan club has lots of room for new members. Please see me or Nyota to sign up!"

"Oh no, Mister," Uhura said with a jab. "You'll have to be your own secretary!"

Laughter followed him from the stage. Uhura waited a minute for the room to calm before continuing.

"We have a rare treat tonight. You all know Doctor McCoy, of course, but many of you probably don't know that our chief surgeon is also a pretty fair guitarist. Unfortunately, he's a little shy about performing, so let's welcome him to the stage before he sneaks back to Sickbay."

The few steps distance to the stage felt longer. Kyle set a stool beside the piano. Uhura met him with a wink. "The microphone's on. It's all yours."

He perched on the stool and adjusted the strap around his neck. He looked out over the crowded room, thinking it was almost exactly what he had mentioned to M'Benga the day before, people gathered doing something they enjoyed. He noticed Kirk, Sulu, and Chapel sitting in the back. The Captain was not a regular visitor to the rec room unless he and Spock were having a game of chess. Kirk nodded, beside him Chapel waved and gave him the OK sign, Sulu a thumb up. McCoy took a breath and turned to T'Phol, still seated at the piano. "Know any Dire Straits?" He watched as her mental catalog flashed by, and she nodded.

"Yes, but not many. I do not know their entire discography."

"Then jump in if you want." He swiveled back to the audience, clearing his throat.

"Well, Chekov is a hard act to follow. Everyone has done a great job. Until literally ten seconds ago, I had no idea what I was gonna play for you tonight. I have a taste for twentieth and twenty-first century rock and roll, both in music and guitars. This song is from a band called Dire Straits and legendary guitarist Mark Knopfler. Customarily this would be performed on a solid body electric guitar and not an acoustic. So here goes Sultans of Swing."

He hit the opening licks and progressed quickly into the fingerwork. He heard T'Phol join in, holding back the piano, giving his guitar the spotlight. He did a basic cut without adding the extended solo that he sometimes did when it was only him and he was lost in the frets. It was not his best ever he was sure, but it was presentable, without excessive string noise and no major slips. He thought the audience appreciated it more than its merit. He dove straight into the next.

"This is the first 'serious' piece I ever learned, Cavatina, by composer Stanley Meyers. Classical work is usually performed on classical guitar, with nylon strings for a mellow and smooth tone. On steel strings the effect is crisper and more resonant."

Cavatina was not a long piece, but not easy to play. He liked playing classical once in a while for a change of pace. Cavatina was melodic and romantic, soothing to hear.

He spoke softly to T'Phol while waiting for the applause to finish. "One more. Pink Floyd? Wish You Were Here?"

"Yes, I know it."

McCoy dug a pick from his pocket and dove into the opening rhythmic chords without introduction. He didn't think he was going to sing until he actually began. He was still slightly hoarse, but the huskiness suited the lyrics

In the instrumental part following the verses, the guitar and piano were seamless. McCoy had not played with accompaniment since college. For that moment it was exhilarating and he let himself go without reservation. He sounded the final chord and people were on their feet before it faded. He stood, took a quick bow and waved. He glanced toward T'Phol, she had risen and was applauding, too. He held out his hand and she grasped it as they took a bow together. He stepped down from the stage and into Uhura's hug. Chekov and Kyle and several others gathered around him. By the time he spoke to them and worked his way over to where Scott sat exhaustion was creeping in. He realized he was still holding T'Phol's hand, and gave her fingers a squeeze before letting go.

Scott stood, clasping McCoy's shoulder for a moment. "So, ye can sing when yer not blootered. That was pure dead barry, ye numpty."

"I'm gonna assume whatever you just said is a good thing," McCoy huffed. "If it's not, we'll have to take it up later."

Chapel and Kirk joined them. Chapel, who was not normally very demonstrative, gave McCoy a peck on the cheek and a quick hug. Kirk looked at them, humor playing across his features. "Bones, Miss Grayson. Fantastic. You should do it more often."

McCoy regarded him with suspicion. "Thanks, Jim. How is it you happened by?"

Kirk's brow rose in an expression of innocence. "It's my ship. I might show up anywhere." He looked at Scott. "In fact, I saw the whole show. You did a good job, too."

"Thank ye, Captain. Uhura called 'im," Scott said, sotto voce to McCoy. "She's a mover and shaker this evening fer sure. And here she comes."

Uhura worked her way toward them, Tamura in tow. She was buoyantly energetic. If she was feeling any effects from a late night the evening before, it didn't show. She greeted them, giving Scott a big smile. "See, I told you it would be fine. They loved it. Next time we'll plan some sing-a-longs."

"Ach, no. Nae blatherin' about next time, Lass."

McCoy laughed despite his fatigue. Uhura turned to him. "And, you, Doctor. Why you hide from performing I have no idea. That last number was supreme, not just for here but anywhere. I'll bet the library history banks will be busy looking up your twentieth century rockers for a while. Tam recorded the whole program, so you won't be able to deny it in the future." She looked at Scott. "You, too."

"Yes," Tamura said, patting the drone. It's all right in here. That reminds me, I have this for you, T'Phol." She handed her a disk. "Your concert from last night. It's not professional, but it looks and sounds pretty good. The Snitch did a great job. You can pull stills from it if you like photos."

"Thank you. I look forward to seeing floating video." Although she usually did not watch her own performances, she thought she might break with her routine one time.

McCoy rubbed his neck and blinked. "Y'all gotta excuse me, but I'm dead on my feet. I need to call it an evenin'" His drawl was often more pronounced when he was tired or stressed, and it was present in full force.

Kirk looked at him, then nodded. "Have a good night, then. I'll talk to you in the morning when we arrive at Aminta."

"Will do, Captain." He looked at T'Phol. "Are you stayin'?"

"I think I will retire early as well. Tomorrow will be busy for me."

"I'll walk with you," McCoy said. "Good night, folks."

They navigated through a chorus of good nights before they were free and clear in the corridor. He stopped at the turbolift. "Are you coming with me?"

"If you have no objection."

In answer he took her hand and they boarded the lift together. He was almost stumbling with weariness when they entered his quarters. He wiped down the guitar and returned it to its case first, then grabbed pajama pants and went to the bathroom, changed and brushed his teeth. When he came out T'Phol was sitting on his bunk, looking a little ill at ease. He pulled her to her feet and kissed her very gently. Then he opened a drawer and handed her a clean T-shirt.

"We shoulda got your stuff. You can sleep in this tonight. There's a new toothbrush in the bathroom. I'll try to stay awake until you finish."

He turned back the cover and almost fell into bed, moving to the edge, his eyes closing of their own accord. In a short time he felt her lie beside him and pull the blanket over them both. He managed to open his eyes for a minute longer. "Lights off." The room faded into complete darkness as he reached his arms around her and she wormed closer to him. Her body felt a little cool at first , but then warmed under the cover next to his body heat. Her hand lightly rubbed the back of his neck where he always felt tension and he relaxed into the motion. "Ya OK?" he mumbled as sleep was overtaking him.

"Yes," she whispered in the darkness. "Go to sleep, Leonard."

There was no reply except for his breathing. She stroked his neck until she slept.

* * *

He had something they wanted.

He was deep in a malevolent wood. Bare trees scratched at a leaden and heavy grey sky. A few dead leaves clung to the branches like shreds of flesh from talons. He shivered as a cold wind rustled through the landscape, its bitter fingers wrapping around him in a predatory vice. A sharp, unknown smell assaulted his nostrils, making his eyes sting as his breath caught in his throat.

He couldn't see them, but he knew they were out there. They were looking for him.

He had something they wanted.

* * *

T'Phol jerked awake with a start. The dark surrounding her felt viscid and cold. It took her a few seconds to orient, then she realized McCoy was rigid beside her, his body stiff and unyielding, his breath hissing through clenched jaws.

She sat up, shaking his shoulders, calling his name without results. "Lights on!"

She blinked against the sudden brightness and had a moment of terror. McCoy's eyes were open, but staring without vision, his pupils dilated with no visible iris, face gleaming with perspiration. She shook him harder, calling him again, and was reaching for the intercom to call for help when he shuddered and flung himself upright in bed with an inarticulate cry. He covered his eyes, his breath coming in ragged gasps

"What the hell...Lights ten percent." He threw his legs over the side of the bed, tucking his head into his hands, his fingers clutching into his hair, trying to calm his breathing and swallowing against nausea.

"I think you were having a seizure," T'Phol said, her voice unsteady. "You were rigid and unresponsive, and your pupils did not constrict with the light. I am going to call Sickbay."

"No. It's not a seizure. Gimme a minute." His tone allowed for no argument.

She reluctantly turned away from the comm unit and watched him, waiting She hesitantly touched the back of his neck. He was wet with sweat. It took a long moment for his breathing to even and his shoulders to stop trembling. Finally he sat upright, expelling a deep breath and stood, turning to T'Phol. "I'm OK, just going to the bathroom." He splashed his face and drunk some water as his heartbeat began to slow from its galloping. His wet T-shirt was clammy, he dropped it on the floor and toweled off, shivering. She was standing just outside the door when he came out, her eyes wide and tense. She was also shivering, from the coolness of his room or the aftermath of fear. He drew her to him and they clung to each other fiercely for a moment.

"You're freezing. Thermostat, plus ten degrees."

He led her back to bed and and covered them both with the blanket, tucking it in around her shoulders. His hands were cold as held her close. Eventually their shivering stopped and his hands returned to their usual warmth. He closed his eyes, trying to relax and return to calmness.

"Tell me what happened," she said. "Was that a nightmare?"

He was silent so long she thought he was not going to answer. Then he opened his eyes. She was relieved to see that although his pupils were wide in the dimness, she could see some blue around them, as they should be.

"I'm sorry the room was so cold. My thermostat automatically cools at night."

"You are avoiding my question." She untangled her hands from the covers and began rubbing his neck. After a few minutes she felt his heartbeat ease from its pounding and he began to relax.

He lifted his head to glance at the chronometer over her shoulder. "It's over now. I'm OK. Just after one. Still time to grab some decent sleep before morning."

"Why do you not want to talk to me? Does this happen often? Can you simply go back to sleep following an event like that? Do you think I can?"

He sighed, resigned to her persistence. "I am sorry you had to witness that. It was a night terror, not a nightmare. That's why I didn't respond until I came out of it. They are far more common in children than in adults. Most people outgrow them. Unfortunately I haven't. Sometimes I have a long time between occurrences, sometimes they happen frequently. Some are worse than others. At least I didn't throw up all over you. I do more often than not."

"What do they mean?"

He shrugged and smoothed her hair away from her face, "I don't know. Sometime I can guess what precipitates an episode, more often I can't."

"What..."

He laid his finger across her lips. "Shhhh. I can't tell you any more."

"Won't."

He did not deny that. T'Phol moved her hand down his back, gently kneading the muscles, her fingers playing soft chords down his spine and across his vertebrae. Somehow that action was quieting and soothing for them both, and although neither expected to sleep, they both did.

* * *

McCoy opened his eyes. He was surprised he had fallen asleep and more so that T'Phol was also sleeping, her arm still wrapped around him. He watched her in the dim light, and thought about the night terror. While he had been disconcerted, the terrors were not a new thing for him, but seldom did they bring such a feeling of danger. Often the details faded away after he was awake, but he could still see every lurid element in that unforgiving landscape and feel and smell the cold and dank air in his face. He closed his eyes against the memory and buried his face in T'Phol's shoulder.

The movement brought her to wakefulness. She tightened her arms around him. "How are you?"

"I'm fine. I guess we both slept after all." He looked at the chronometer, it was just before seven. "We managed almost eight hours, even if it was divided." He traced her cheek with his thumb. "Are you all right? Parasomnic events are frightening. I'm sorry."

"Indeed. I was thoroughly alarmed. Do you suffer ill effects following such an event?"

McCoy sighed. "Not if I can sleep afterward."

"Do you remember the content later?"

"Sometimes."

"You have had them all your life?"

"Pretty much." He rose on an elbow. " No more questions. The terrors belong to me, just like your Rage is part of you."

She heard the somberness in his tone, bit back the things she wanted to ask and fell silent, closing her eyes. He continued to stroke her cheek and neck, his callused fingers pleasantly rough. His index finger rested lightly in her suprasternal notch. He drew little spirals following a path over her clavicle to her shoulder and back, bending his head to nuzzle against her neck. When he spoke again, his voice was deep and soft.

"What are you thinking about now?"

She was thinking how warm and comfortable she was and how easy it would be to become accustomed to waking up next to him, nightmares and all, soaking in his Human heat with his warm, skilled hands playing over her as if she was an instrument and he was writing her score. She opened her eyes.

"I was thinking that you are grumpy in the morning."

He laughed softly. "Not just in the morning." He trailed his hand down her shirt, heard her small breath as he brushed her breast through the fabric and felt the nipple peak under his palm. He shifted his hips against her, touching his lips to her ear "Maybe we can improve my disposition," he whispered. "Would you like to join me in the shower?"

"Yes." She pulled him closer, feeling his erection pressing into her thigh. "I would like that a great deal, indeed."


	26. Chapter 26

McCoy took a seat in the briefing room, PADD in hand. He was a few minutes early for the department head meeting. The Enterprise was a little over four hours away from assuming orbit at Aminta II. He had already checked and approved the requisition from the clinic and the supplies were crated and ready to beam down. His own medikit was always packed and ready, now modified for thin atmosphere conditions and loaded with extra tri-ox.

There were archeologists, scientists, and other support personnel stationed there who would need physicals. He did not know how advanced their medical facility was. It could encompass anything from a fully equipped mini hospital to a room in a tent where they kept bandages and antibiotic ointment. Judging from their supply list, it was somewhere in-between.

He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes briefly. He had walked T'Phol back to her quarters just before heading to Sickbay. Cassady had just come on duty and signed her in on the log without comment or question. They shared a kiss inside her door and then he left her to finish packing for going planetside. He smiled faintly just as Uhura walked in. She sat next to him and rested her elbow on his chair, looking at him thoughtfully

"You look very satisfied this morning. Anything you want to tell me?"

He sat up straight and turned to her. "Not really."

"I think I see a twinkle in your eye."

"Do you?"He sipped his coffee.

"Don't be enigmatic. You're mysterious enough as it is."

"Keep 'em guessing, I say."

"Well, you certainly added to your mystique last night. I think Scotty was the only person on board who already knew you can sing. He said he'd only heard you when you two were drunk. Something about a bar on Alpha V..."

McCoy blushed. "Shhh. That story doesn't need to see the light of day again."

"What story is that, Bones?" Kirk entered the briefing room, followed closely by Chekov, Scott, and Security Chief Freeman..

"It's one about you, Jim. Want me to tell it now?"

"Later." Kirk made a slicing motion with his hand.

McCoy smirked behind his coffee while Uhura ducked her head to hide a smile.

Kirk sat with his own coffee. "Let's get started," he said, glancing around the table. "You all know we're assisting the archeological team stationed on Aminta with regular medical care and supplies. We're transporting a team of scientists to the site. In addition, Uhura will be working with that team for a few days. We expect to be here about a week. Science report please, Mister Chekov."

Chekov put a tape in the viewing screen and clicked through graphs as he spoke. "We are approaching the Nu Pheonicis system. Nu Pheonicis is an aging F type main sequence star, approximately one point four times the mass of Sol. The system consists of five planets, a rocky inner planetoid, Aminta II, orbiting just inside the Circumstellar Habitable Zone at approximately one point nine five four AU. The others are gas giants, the most distal is over twenty-one AU from the center. This system has an interesting dust cloud extending ten AU to almost twenty-three AU, and elevated amounts of orbital dust and comets within the inner system.

"Nu Aminta II is the second planet in the system. It is slightly bigger than Earth, at fourteen thousand, six hundred forty kilometers in diameter,. In most ways, a typical rocky class M planet, molten core, moderate tectonic plate activity, and liquid and frozen water covering approximately thirty-nine percent of the surface. The gravity is one point two times that of Earth. There are areas of considerable magnesite deposits, which will interfere with sensors and transporters, but they are not near the main station. The atmosphere is oxygen nitrogen, effective oxygen content is thirteen point four percent. The air is also thinner, the atmospheric pressure is sixty-one point nine kilopascal at the main research station."

Kirk frowned. "That's what, comparable to about fifteen thousand feet elevation on Earth?"

"More like thirteen thousand. Three point nine kilometers," Chekov said. "At the equator, Nu Aminta II is characteristic of a subarctic climate. The planet's rotation is slightly slower than Earth's. One rotation takes twenty-eight point eight hours, with daylight and dark evenly divided. There is essentially no axial tilt. Cloud cover will help moderate the temperature while we're here. Daytime temperatures will be near or above freezing, two to six degrees or so. At night expect minus twelve. About like Moscow on a mild winter day. Perfectly tolerable."

Scott snorted. "Aye, if yer a yak" he muttered.

"Yaks were first domesticated in Russia," Chekov added helpfully.

McCoy sighed. "Indigenous life forms? What's gonna try to kill us down there?"

"Dere are several cervidae type species on the surface, the largest is the size of a Terran roe deer. Rodent types from the size of a mole to a rabbit. The predators are carnivora, reminiscent of hyena, but smaller. They move in packs, but no reported attacks on the colony. Also large flying hot bloods, big talons, sharp teeth. A big handful of insectoids. The oceans have fish and exoskeleton-bearing aquatic invertebrates. Most fauna and flora species are extinct. In the region where our team will be, dere are trees, both evergreen and quasi-deciduous, which periodically drop leaves for reasons other than seasonal changes. Lots of lichen and mossy type growth, and tough succulents. Some caryopses type grass. The oceans contain several types of algae, the major oxygen producers." He took the tape from the viewer.

"Thank you, Mister Chekov. Medical report, Doctor McCoy."

"The supplies are ready for delivery. There are about thirty scientists and personnel, Human, Andorian, and a few Vulcans and Rigelians who will get mandated routine physicals. I'll handle that with an assistant. The main colony does have an acclimation building for new arrivals. That's where the clinic is and where most of our activity will occur. Still, any of the Enterprise people who go down will need to observe thin atmosphere protocol, including tri-ox injections, and possibly enriched oxygen therapy. It will be harder to breathe, easier to get dehydrated. Headaches are common, nausea, dizziness, respiratory alkalosis, sleep difficulties. The heart has to work harder at the expense of other systems. Pulmonary and cerebral edema are concerns, especially for the first several days. We won't be here long enough to become fully acclimated, that would take weeks. There are drugs to treat all of those complications, but the best course is to remove the patient from the environment, which is what I'll do if necessary. Some people handle thin air marginally better than others, but none of us will be running a marathon down there. And everyone better pack their long-johns and a cold climate emergency kit. Except for the limited team, I recommend our crew doesn't visit planet-side, certainly not for shore leave. I'll monitor our folks closely and send 'em back if there's a problem."

"So our team won't be exposed to the harshest conditions while they're in the acclimation building?" Kirk leaned forward.

"That's right," McCoy nodded. "I'm not sure how much work would have to be outside that confine, though. I need to stay dirtside as long as we have people there."

Kirk tapped a finger on the table, unhappy but somewhat mollified. "All right. Scotty, any concerns from your end?"

"Aye, the magnesite will play devil wi' the transporter and sensors. The closest deposit is over four kilometers from base station, but I dinnae like it."

"Will it interfere with safe transporting at that distance?"

"Well, no. But our people need to keep away from it." Scott exhaled forcefully. "There is no way to locate someone through magnesite interference."

"I don't think that will be a problem, Scotty," McCoy said. "I doubt any of us will be making a three mile hike under those conditions."

"They do use vehicles and crawler pods on the surface to get from place to place," Uhura said. "Some of the ruins are too far apart to walk, even without the thin air."

Kirk was frowning again, his intuition stirring uneasily. "Superimpose a site map over the magnesite areas."

"Aye, Sir." Chekov quickly had the map on the screen. There were five working ruins. Three sites were clear. Two were in the highlighted zone.

"Avoid installations number four and five," Kirk said. "I want my crew in the clear." He turned to Uhura. "Tell us about the archeological work going on down there."

"The Aminta project is overseen by the Federation Science Bureau. There are five working sites with thirty-one workers in various capacities currently stationed on Nu Aminta. The teams at the actual digs are mostly Andorian with a few Rigelian and a Vulcan or two, species adapted to the thin atmosphere and lower oxygen conditions.

"The oldest ruins are five thousand years old. They do not know the reason, but there is irrefutable evidence that Aminta must have been a hub in this sector for space faring races. This is despite the fact that no sentient lifeforms ever evolved here. The planet was abruptly abandoned about two thousand years ago, again, they do not know why. It was discovered by an Andorian ship working with the FSB almost two years ago. There has been a scientific contingent here since then.

"There are other artifacts, but the most intriguing are the items that link to dead civilizations, and perhaps even beings like the Organians and the Seeders. A lot of this material includes languages that are extinct, and some that may be roots of modern dialects. There is some dissension concerning who has rights to what in academia which may carry over in other relations as well. As a result, few papers have been published and much of what has been discovered needs research and remains un-collaborated, and largely unknown."

"Are you saying that I'm sending people down into a hostile situation?" Kirk rubbed his chin, frowning at the headache that was beginning to throb at his temple.

"Hostile may be overstating it, this is the academic world after all, but some scientists stationed there may be less than friendly to each other. As temporary specialists, I don't see why they would have issue with us, at least not with me or T'Phol because we'll be gone in a week. But how the two Andorians we have with us will fare..." She shrugged. "I understand they will stay on Aminta permanently."

Kirk's mouth tightened. "How they fare is not my problem once they're off my ship," he said, brusquely. "And I am ready to have them off my ship." He looked at Freeman, who nodded.

"Yes, Sir. Security and engineering are ready with the biohazard scan Doctor McCoy ordered. Both Kelan and Vartheb have been notified of our arrival time and confirm they will be ready." Freeman paused. "Kelan also requested their equipment be beamed down using the main transporter and not the cargo beam. I thought that was unusual enough to mention."

"They beamed it to the ship that way, too. He said the equipment is very delicate," McCoy mused. He looked at Scott. "What is the difference between the personnel and cargo transporters, other than additional filters and safeguards?"

"Personnel transporters are quantum level. The phase coils are different. Multiplex pattern buffers and biofilters are different. The cargo transporters could be modified to quantum level, but it'd take a bit o' time. For non-living material, the differences make no difference."

"It makes no difference to me, either, Gentlemen," Kirk said. "Just get them out." He looked around the table. "If there is nothing else, you are dismissed. Doctor McCoy, Uhura, please stay."

Kirk waited until the room cleared before continuing.

"This is off the record. Whatever Spock is doing is the real mission here. In my opinion, this trip is just busy work to occupy our time waiting for him to return. But my gut is screaming that this might not be the milk run that it was supposed to be. There are mysteries here. I don't like mysteries." His gaze lingered first on Uhura, then McCoy.

"There will be no shore leave authorized on Aminta. I will implement a partial stand down aboard ship, light duty rotation, special maintenance tasks. Uhura, are there other crew you will need down there?"

"We probably could use someone from records to correlate our results and do basic research. Yeoman Cassady would be a good choice. I believe he worked with R and D analysis before being assigned here, and he certainly has the computer skills."

"All right, Cassady it is." He turned to McCoy. "What about you, Bones? Who are you taking from medical?"

"Nurse Chapel. The two of us can easily knock out thirty physicals in two days."

Kirk nodded. "Doctor McCoy, you are in command down there. I'm sending a security guard with you. If any of you leave the compound at the main base, you will be accompanied by the guard. No travel to areas affected by magnesite interference. Normal protocol for check-in, unless you're in the field, then every hour."

"Yes, Sir." McCoy scowled. He did not like being in command of anything outside his own sickbay.

Kirk stood and stretched, flexing his shoulders. "I''m beaming down with you when we arrive. I want to see the place for myself."

"I think that's a good idea," McCoy said. "If it's OK, you'll rest easier."

"And if it's not, I want to know that, too." He looked at Uhura. "I won't hesitate to pull our people out, valuable scientific research or not."

"I understand," Uhura said.

"We'll meet in the transporter room at fourteen hundred hours." He turned on his heel and stalked out.

McCoy shook his head. "Here we go," he said.


	27. Chapter 27

In the end, getting the Andorians off the ship went quickly and without mishap. Vartheb and Kelan seemed eager to get to the surface. Their bioscan scan was clean, so they and their equipment were beamed down just after Enterprise reached orbit. The others followed thirty minutes later.

McCoy felt like he had materialized in Dorothy Gale's Kansas. Everything was grey, inside and out.

The landing party, Kirk, Uhura, McCoy, Giotto, Cassady, Chapel and T'Phol, had beamed down in the main building's receiving area. It was a long, narrow room, with the transporting area in an alcove at one end and a bank of wide windows at the other. The walls were massive stones, placed together almost seamlessly in great blocks. The floor was also rock, slate colored with tiny glittery bits like mica. There were lights held in sconces lining both long walls, but they were off and the main illumination came through several skylights. Benches and more comfortable looking chairs and tables were placed throughout, with vidscreens and computer interfaces at several. McCoy guessed it served as a common area and dining room, one door just off the transport area was marked galley.

They were met by a short, stocky, middle-aged Human who identified himself as Osmond Jasso, the head administrator of the Aminta Project. Kirk did the introductions. Jasso did not look overjoyed to see them, but was civil enough, inviting them to follow him to his office. It was not a large space, dominated by a bulky, cluttered desk in front of a big window. The walls were lined with shelves filled with paper books, tablets and random artifacts. The seven of them plus Jasso crowded into the room. McCoy moved to the side and glanced out the window.

The window overlooked a craggy, rocky landscape, dotted with scrubby, twisted dark evergreens and low shrubs with oval, thick greyish leaves. Grey lichen covered much of the ground. The sky was overcast but bright. McCoy could see a stone wall about four feet high just beyond the last trees. At first he thought there were statues or gargoyles carved there, but then he realized the great hulking shapes were large creatures sitting on the wall, very still. He thought he could see the gleam of their eyes as he imagined them staring at him through the window. It was a little unsettling. He turned his attention back to Jasso who was describing some newly discovered material at one of the sites. Uhura and T'Phol listened with enthusiasm, the others feigned interest for the sake of politeness. Kirk looked impatient, but waited until Jasso paused before interrupting.

"Tell us about this building. All new arrivals stay here for a while?"

Jasso blinked, as if changing subjects was a difficult task for him.

"Yes," he said, "if they need acclimating. This building is maintained at approximately seventy-eight kilopascals. Outside the air pressure is around sixty. Oxygen content in here is sixteen percent verses thirteen outside. In Earth terms, that's about seven thousand feet of altitude rather than thirteen. Some sensitive people have degrees of acclimation difficulty even in these moderate conditions. Time is the best cure. Our group is currently composed of eighteen Human, seven- no, make that nine- Andorian, three Rigelian and three Vulcan. Humans are the ones with acclimation problems, of course. The other races are native to thin air.

"As temporary assistants, your people may quarter here in the main building. To facilitate travel outdoors, we have scooters, all terrain pods, and crawlers. Flitters are not much use here, the ground is rather rocky and uneven."

McCoy glanced outside again and almost jumped, startled. One of the creatures was just outside the window staring at him. Jasso grimaced and slapped the pane with his hand. "Get away!" he shouted.

If the creature was frightened it didn't show. It continued to regard McCoy without flinching or turning away.

"This must be one of the flying predators," McCoy said in wonder. It was bigger than he had imagined, standing upright about five feet tall at the shoulders. Its face and neck were grey with small, smooth scales that seemed embedded with mica or glass, much like the floor. The scales on the wings and body were more feather-like, gleaming like burnished pewter. It had a beaked mouth and sharp talons, and eyes gleaming red and yellow, the vertical pupil constricting and then dilating as it regarded him with intensity. McCoy touched the glass with his fingertips, the eyes followed his movement, the beak almost touching the glass where McCoy's fingers rested.

Jasso hit the glass again. The creature turned its head slowly toward the disturbance and its mouth opened in what might have been a hiss, although McCoy couldn't hear through the thick glass. Inside the beak were two rows of sharp teeth.

"Don't do that," he said to Jasso, without thinking. Jasso turned, staring at him.

"Doctor- McCoy, isn't it? These creatures are becoming a nuisance. At first we hardly saw them, but lately they have ventured closer to our compound and our work sites. But they've never come this close before. Something will have to be done about them."

"Maybe they're curious. After all, you are visitors on their world."

Jasso snorted. "They are wild animals, and dangerous. Don't you see those teeth and claws?"

"Have they attacked anyone?"

Jasso's eyes grew somehow small and hard. "And I have no intention of letting that happen. We will deal with them. This is not your concern, Doctor."

"I'm a doctor. Life is always my concern," McCoy snapped.

The two glared at each other for a moment while the others stared at them. Jasso looked away first. Outside, the creature looked at McCoy again, then unfurled its wings, which easily spanned twelve feet. Its legs sprung into a mighty jump and with two or three beats of its wings it was flying over the wall. The others took flight following and soon they were out of sight.

Jasso looked at the group. "How many of you will be staying? I will have my assistant show you to your rooms. The linguistics lab is in the south hall. Doctor McCoy, she will also take you and your nurse to our clinic area, and you may coordinate your medical reports with her." He punched a button on his intercom. "Arnette, come to my office."

Arnette was either waiting for the call or very nearby, she was there within a minute, a tall, pale woman whose thin face betrayed no emotion. Jasso gestured toward the group. "This is Captain Kirk of the Enterprise and his people. Show them to their quarters and see to their needs." He sat at his desk and addressed Kirk. "Arnette will be your liaison while your party is here. Please let her know if you require anything as she reports directly to me. Good day." He picked up a PADD and it seemed they were dismissed.

Arnette led them down a hall to another part of the building, explaining the layout as they walked. The main building was shaped like an H with extensions on both sides of the crossbar. The wings were designated south hall and north hall, both with an A and B wing, and long hall. The offices, staff housing, common area, galley, and clinic were in the long hall, labs and work areas in south, and residences in north.

There were several groups of quarters in north hall. Some areas were laid out in quads, others with one or two rooms. Altogether, north hall could house up to thirty-six people. The accommodations in the field were bunk rooms, Arnette explained. The rooms she led them to were at the end of the hall, and laid out in two sets of three rooms, six small sleeping areas, each with a bunk, desk and chair, and computer interface, sharing a sizable living area and two bathrooms. Their bags were already sitting in the living area.

"How many scientists are here now?" Kirk asked.

"Fourteen are currently here in base, including staff and our support personnel. There are seventeen on location at four other ruins."

"Are Kelan and Vartheb here?" McCoy asked. "Vartheb is using a substance that is an extreme respiratory irritant to Humans, and probably to other species as well."

"We are aware, thank you. They left for their assignment immediately. There are only Andorians at their site."

Kirk caught the sidelong glance from McCoy, but said nothing, and miraculously the doctor didn't pursue whatever avenue of thought he was following. Arnette took several small electronic devices from her bag along with her PADD.

"You will need these badges, both to access the computer network and to travel outside this building. Yours are minimum level keys, allowing you to log on to any open computer and enter non-restricted areas. Your researchers will also be issued passes to our linguistics lab. These are bio-linked to one signature, and are not interchangeable. I will call your name." McCoy was called first, he stepped forward rather reluctantly. Arnette reminded him of his ex-wife and he was trying not to give in to the instant and irrational dislike that was blooming in his gut.

"Do you need the blood of our firstborn, too?" he quipped, but with an underlying thread of seriousness.

Arnette raised a thin, perfectly groomed eyebrow in icy politeness. "I beg your pardon?"

Evidently the distrust went both ways. "Never mind. What do I have to do?"

"It is painless, I assure you. You will grasp the badge in your hand." She touched the badge with her stylus, then placed the badge in his hand. After a few seconds she touched her pad and nodded. "Yours is now activated. You may wear it or carry it in a pocket."

She repeated the process with the others except for Kirk, who was not staying on Aminta.

"And if I decide my people need to return to the Enterprise?" McCoy asked.

Kirk watched as Arnette's face betrayed a bit of annoyance.

"Your people are not prisoners here. If any of your party leave, please return the badge to the office." She turned to the others. "I am available to answer any questions that may arise. Doctor McCoy, if you and Nurse Chapel are ready, I would like to acquaint you with our clinic facility. Two of our field teams are on the way in now, the Vulcans and Rigelians. It would be advantageous to their schedule if their physicals could be completed this afternoon."

McCoy glanced at Kirk, who quickly stepped forward. "I'd like a last minute briefing with my people before we separate. If you don't mind." He was pointedly courteous.

"Very well. When you are ready, my office is the third on the left after you enter long hall. You are free to explore the areas of our complex that are accessible with your badges, but please take caution if you go outside. The thin air is harsh for those who are not acclimated." She nodded and walked away, her footsteps staccato on the stone tile.

Kirk's eyes swept his crew, settling on Uhura. "I am not crazy about this place or those people. But I don't have to like the office staff. I know this is important to you. Do you want to stay?"

"Yes, Sir," Uhura answered without hesitation.

Kirk's lips thinned. "Doctor McCoy, a word with you, please."

They stepped to the hall junction and looked out of the window onto the grey landscape. The yard sloped downhill, and the perimeter wall was further away. Both men studied the scene for a moment.

"So you've been here fifteen minutes and you've already pissed off the administrator _and_ his assistant," Kirk said quietly. "Good going, Bones."

McCoy shrugged. "I think the assistant is just moderately irritated."

Kirk looked at him, torn between exasperation and amusement. "You are in command of this mission, and a representative of the Federation."

"Yeah?" McCoy turned to Kirk. "Well, so are they. Jasso is threatening intelligent creatures just because they're curious. And Arnette is either lying or hiding something about Vartheb and Kelan. How would she already know about the defkato? This place is filled with uneasy in your face bureaucracy. They beamed down and left right away? What about their debriefing? What about these badges? Something doesn't ring true there."

"I'll echo Jasso for a minute and remind you that Vartheb and Kelan are not our concern now. They're gone and good riddance. But those creatures. You think they're - intelligent?"

"Yes. I do. Maybe more than intelligent."

"Based on?"

"A feeling. Intuition."

Kirk shook his head. "It's not that I don't trust your intuition, but..."

"I know. Don't say it."

"You want to stay, don't you?"

McCoy looked back out the window. In the distance, he could imagine great grey wings soaring over the harsh terrain that was their home "Yes," he said in a hushed voice.

Kirk nodded. "Just...Be careful. I still am uneasy about this. Get through with those physicals, watch over the team, and get back where you belong. Don't take risks."

"Coming from you, that's a tall order."

Kirk smiled a little. "Do as I say."

"And not as you do. I get it."

Kirk laid a hand on McCoy's shoulder. "You can't fix everything."

McCoy sighed. "I know."

They walked back to the group. Uhura looked up hopefully.

"Doctor McCoy is in charge while you are here," Kirk said. Don't leave the building alone, stay away from the magnesite areas. If there are any problems I will bring the team back aboard immediately. Everyone be careful."

He flipped open his communicator. "Kirk to Enterprise. Beam me up."

McCoy watched him shimmer away, then turned to the others.

"You heard him. Pick a room, I guess, and stow your things. Arnette said we could explore the facility. Stay inside until I can give you a tri-ox injection.

"There's more. Listen up, everyone, this is important. The conditions here are very similar to high altitude on Earth in terms of air pressure and oxygen levels. The thinner atmosphere causes some physiological changes. Your body saps energy from the digestive system to spend on breathing more efficiently. This happens even with the tri-ox injections. So eat small meals high in carbs and low in fat unless you want to feel like your stomach is loaded with rocks. Carry some nutrition bars with you and nibble if you're outside for any length of time. And drink more than usual. You're losing moisture every time you breathe, and your heart is pumping harder, so you'll urinate more often. If you get dehydrated, you'll feel worse.

"A feeling like you're hungover is normal mild altitude sickness. You may experience some headache, nausea, difficulty sleeping, shortness of breath, increased heart rate. See me if they are bothersome. If you get worse, or you develop a cough, or spit up froth or blood, or become confused or disoriented, or get a bad headache, or experience loss of coordination, see me at once. Severe high altitude sickness causes life threatening complications. So don't play around."

"Maybe that explains why everyone here is so grouchy," said Uhura. "They have altitude sickness."

"No, they have attitude sickness. The Human body can acclimate to these conditions. At the level outside it would take weeks," McCoy said. "Nurse Chapel and I have an appointment to inspect the clinic. I have no idea how long that will take." He patted his communicator. "Call me if you need me."

"We'll walk with you to the clinic," Uhura said. "T'Phol and I want to go to the linguistics lab as soon as we can."

"Yes," said T'Phol. "The Moog is not here. Presumably it was delivered straight to the lab."

"I'll go with them, Sir," Cassady said.

"OK," McCoy said. "Giotto, why don't you stay with Chapel and me?"

They walked together as far as Arnette's office. Her door stood open, but McCoy knocked on the door frame. She looked up from her work and immediately left her desk.

"Captain Kirk has beamed back to the ship," McCoy told her. 'The others are going to the lab. We are ready to see the clinic at your discretion."

"Very well. This way, please." She strode away at a quick pace without a further word or glance, leaving them to follow her precise and clicking footsteps down the hall.


	28. Chapter 28

**Thank you to those who have read so far. I'd appreciate review or comment. This story has not been beta-ed, so if I'm making mistakes (and I'm sure I am!) it won't hurt my feelings if someone wants to point them out. I am catching up to what I have already written, so after the next couple of chapters the updates will be at a slower pace.**

The clinic was a surprisingly spacious area comprised of a receiving area, a curtained treatment room, and a storage area. The supplies from the Enterprise had already been put away. There was no biobed, but there were two stretchers and a cart with a fair assortment of scanners and some emergency equipment, including a defibrillator and portable ventilator. Everything was clean and well organized. McCoy was impressed and said so to Arnette.

"One of our staff has some experience in the field as a medic. He keeps this area maintained, and is capable of treating small wounds and simple maladies." She looked at McCoy, her expression unreadable. "He is capable of doing a physical as well, but the FSB insists on a physician report. So here you are."

"Yes," McCoy said drily. "Here I am. When are you expecting the scientists from the sites?"

"Three have arrived already. They will be along shortly. Three others will be here within the hour. You may set up a schedule for tomorrow, allowing for how much time you will need per patient. Just forward it to my office, and I will send patients to you at regular intervals. Medical records have been forwarded to the computer in here. Your badge has full access to those." She turned to leave.

"One more thing," McCoy said. "I notice the clock says six two. How is time counted here?"

"There are almost twenty-nine Earth hours in a planetary rotation. The days and nights are almost evenly divided. Our clocks begin zero at sunrise and count up to twenty-eight point eight, then start over. Each hour counts in eighths. Twilight begins shortly after thirteen, it is dark by fourteen four. There are no moons, but there is some luminescent plant life. The compound is well lit. Night can be dark here on Aminta."

"What is considered a work day?"

'Whenever we work. But you may plan to be here at two tomorrow morning. Does that answer your question?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"Contact me if you require assistance." Her heels clicked down the hall.

Giotto looked at McCoy, who shook his head.

"By the time I get the clock figured out, it will be time to leave," McCoy said, not quite kidding. "Christine, let's have a look at the computer before we have patients."


	29. Chapter 29

**The song McCoy sings to the creatures is, of course, Blackbird. I removed the lyrics to stay within Fanfiction's guidelines.**

McCoy and Chapel finished the six physicals and had the reports recorded and filed before twelve, planet time. For a while Giotto had busied himself with a PADD while they worked, but by the time they were through he had pulled a chair by the window and was observing with quiet alertness.

"What is it, Barry?" McCoy finished drying his hands.

"The bird things are back." Giotto pointed to the wall where two of the winged creatures were sitting. "They have been there a while, perched on the wall. It feels like they're watching for something. It's kind of creepy."

McCoy had a strong notion that they were watching for him. He stepped closer to the window, looking out. Both creatures immediately hopped down from the wall. The bigger one moved toward them, its gait a clumsy looking shuffle. It came right up to the window and stood tall. McCoy couldn't say how he knew, but he thought it was the same one that had approached him before, He slowly reached out his hand and touched the window. It tilted its head, then reached out with a wing. McCoy noticed a clawed appendage at the apex, much like a bat's thumb. It touched the window with deliberate movement, resting its claw against his fingers. McCoy moved his hand slowly. The claw followed. He heard Chapel's quick gasp while Giotto stood stiffly beside him. His own heart rate accelerated as the creature looked at him, its 'hand' still meeting his on the other side of the glass. They regarded each other for a moment. McCoy had the distinct feeling he was being evaluated.

"OK, Piasa. I'm coming out there."

Giotto tensed. "I wouldn't recommend that, Doctor McCoy. We have no idea how these creatures will react."

"They see people going in and out of here every day." He took a tri-ox hypo from his medikit, dialed a dose and injected his forearm. Giotto immediately held his arm out.

"You are not going out there alone," he said quietly.

Without a word, McCoy pushed the shot against his arm. Chapel also stepped forward, but he holstered the hypo.

"Christine, two of us are enough this time. It's trying to communicate with us."

Her temper rose. "Or maybe it's wondering if you taste like chicken. You're not indestructible, Doctor. This is a foolish risk."

"I don't think it's foolish." He removed a scanner, then handed his medikit to Chapel. "Watch from inside and use it if you have to. I'm getting my coat. There is an exit at the end of our hall. I'd just as soon not draw attention from the staff."

McCoy and Giotto both put on coats, and McCoy slung a tricorder around his neck.

"Set your phaser on stun," McCoy said. "Don't take it out unless we're attacked. I don't want them to feel threatened."

They slipped quietly out the two sets of doors, leaving an unhappy Chapel to watch from inside.

* * *

Outside it was cold, but not frigid. Air stirred against their faces, enough to nip. It was quiet except for the low rustling sound of the leathery succulent leaves in the slight breeze. McCoy could feel his heart begin to pump harder as the tri-ox took effect, and his ears popped as the pressure began to equalize. He turned to Giotto.

"The clinic would be on the other side. I'm going to walk around there."

Giotto's eyes widened. "Not necessary, Doc. Look."

McCoy turned to see the two flyers landing about a hundred feet away, between the wall and where he was standing. They folded their wings and sat, silent and watching.

"Stay here," McCoy said quietly. "I'm going to meet them."

He walked slowly and steadily forward about half the distance to them and stopped, holding his empty hands out. Both creatures took a few shuffling steps toward him. McCoy's attention was immediately drawn to the smaller of the two. It was obviously favoring one side, its movement hitching and painful to watch. He slowly reached into his coat pocket for the medical scanner. He held it for a minute on his open palm, then turned on the tricorder. When the beep and whirr caused no reaction, he moved a few steps closer and began talking to them in a low voice, his words a sing-song litany. Both tilted heads as he approached. He was less than ten paces away when he stopped again, his voice faltering. He could smell them, a dry, acrid odor that stung his eyes and throat. He recollected with certain clarity that same smell from his night terror. He fought to subdue his sudden panic.

The smaller creature shrunk back and hissed, but the other took a step closer, then another, until it was standing close enough to touch. McCoy reached his empty hand out, marveling that it was steady, watching as its pupil constricted almost to a pinpoint. The beak opened enough to see the first row of teeth. McCoy's pulse raced faster, pounding in his ears. An old Beatles song popped into his head. Almost in desperation, he began to sing softly.

Its pupil flared wide as it stretched to its full height while behind it the other spread its wings.

Giotto drew his phaser and took a step toward them as McCoy began the second verse.

The dark face came closer to him, then it turned its head slightly. The mesmerizing gold and red eye seemed to glow softly. "Nice Piasa," McCoy whispered, putting all his mental effort into projecting his benign intention.

Behind him Giotto aimed, ready to stun both of them.

They stood beak to nose for what seemed like an eternity to those watching. McCoy reached a little closer and touched the sleek, shining scales on its neck. Then the creature began to trill very softly. He could feel the vibration through his fingers. He realized it was humming the Blackbird song back to him, but using a different scale. Its voice sounded like it was being filtered through drones and woodwinds in multiple layers. It finished singing and relaxed, moving its face away from McCoy's and settling back.

Giotto lowered his phaser and released the breath he had been holding. Inside, Chapel relaxed her death grip on the medikit.

McCoy and Piasa studied each other for a minute. The smaller one limped closer and sat, one leg extended at an awkward angle.

He held the scanner out for their inspection.

"Little Birdie is hurt," he said in a soft singing voice. "Can I examine your foot? This doesn't hurt, see?" He activated the scanner and turned it on himself.. When there was no movement, he turned it toward the smaller one, crouching closer on one knee, talking in little nonsensical rhymes as he worked. He heard it warble and the other answer. It held very still as he ran the scanner over it and consulted the tricorder.

He sat back and visually studied the injury. Its foot had four toes, two forward and two back, each ending in a long, curved, and very lethal looking talon. The foot was bigger than both of his hands together. The leg was barely bent at an angle above the toes, but the skin was unbroken. In a human he'd say it was a greenstick fracture. On one toe, the talon was torn and laying to the side. The wound appeared fresh and was slowly oozing dark blood. Little Birdie was softly panting, a universal sign of being in pain.

McCoy chewed at the inside of his mouth as he thought and studied the tricorder readout. The creatures had iron based hemoglobin, but with a high concentration of magnesium and several unfamiliar properties. The chemistry panel was almost indecipherable without hours of study and a run through the bio-computer. He knew he wouldn't risk anesthesia, even assuming they would allow him to treat the leg at all. It would be a simple procedure to reduce the fracture and amputate the talon. He turned and set the tricorder on the ground. Making eye contact, he reached slowly for the foot.

"I have to look at this so we can fix it. Will you let me see? Make Little Birdie all better? I have to touch you. Can Uncle Lennie handle your foot?" He hadn't talked baby talk in a long time, but he hoped his tone was soothing and calming. Piasa made a chiming sound, very low and deep. To McCoy's astonishment, Little Birdie adjusted position and extended the foot toward him.

"Thank you, that's a good boy. Let's have a look. Here we go..." McCoy gently touched a good toe, running a finger down the talon and back, then continued up the leg. He could hear a soft tremolo,somewhat higher in pitch and not as resonant as the bigger version, and independent of the panting. He examined the tarsometatarsus, passing over the break, but grasping more firmly above that area at the tibio-tarsal articulation. It was covered with hard, flat silver-grey scales. The scaly covering from the ankle area to the knee was softer, with a texture like thick feathers. The scales were rounded and layered so they overlapped. Under the scales, the muscles were well defined and the skin was very warm.

He worked his way back down, touching the bent area carefully. The trilling halted as Little Birdie tilted his head and he could feel the eye on him. He looked up. "I know this is a hurt place. I won't do anything yet, but we have to set it to make it better. Next I'm gonna look at your toe, OK? Wanna play little piggy?"

The soft trill began again, slower and with a different pitch. McCoy took that as a signal allowing him to proceed. He gently grasped the injured toe above the torn talon, manipulating the joint and inspecting the injury. He discovered the distal metatarsus was also torn. He inspected the remaining tissue still connecting them with the rest of the toe. He released the foot and looked at both of them.

"I can fix this. I can set the leg just like new, but the talon has to go. I have to get some things. Will you wait?"

He got to his feet, his knee a little stiff from kneeling on the cold ground. Both sets of eyes were on him as he backed away a few steps. When they didn't move, he turned and walked back to the overhang where Giotto waited. The security man looked at him with an incredulous expression.

"I need some supplies. The smaller one is hurt."

"And you're going to treat it, of course." Giotto sounded resigned. He had been the head of the security team on Janus VI when McCoy had healed the Horta. He remembered the feeling of awe and disbelief that the doctor had approached treating the silicon creature almost casually, seemingly unmindful that he could be reduced to smoking cinders in a few seconds. At first he thought McCoy had a death wish or was simply foolhardy. Almost four years later, he knew better. The man was a healer.

McCoy could see Chapel waiting behind the second door, He stepped into the chamber behind the outside door and waited for the pressure to equalize. He opened the door and reached for his medikit.

"I need a cauterizing laser scalpel," he said. And some of that plexi-stabilizer we use for field casting. Both are in my big kit in my room."

Chapel recognized the urgency in his voice and rushed to get them. Just as she returned with the items, T'Phol, Uhura and Cassady came down the hall. They hurried the rest of the way.

"What is happening here?" Uhura asked. "Has there been an accident?"

"No," McCoy said. "We're all fine. I'm treating a patient outside." He added the scalpel and casting set to his kit, turning to the door.

Uhura looked out. "Are _those_ your patients?"

"Just the smaller one. I'm going out again. No one else is to come outside."

T'Phol moved forward. "No, not alone. I will accompany you."

McCoy's eyes flashed. "Everyone will stay here," he repeated sharply. "That's an order." He looked pointedly at Uhura, who nodded slightly. He slipped through the door and was out. T'Phol took a step to follow, but Uhura moved in front of the door and laid a hand on her arm.

"He knows what he's doing. You have to stay with us, as he ordered."

T'Phol reluctantly backed away to the window as they all took posts and watched.

* * *

The light was noticeably dimmer as he crossed the yard once again. He walked with slow even steps all the way to them and knelt on the ground. They were both quiet as he opened his medikit and took out the scalpel.

"See?" He held the device on his palm, then laid it aside. He hummed a little Blackbird as he removed the casting kit and mixed the components, installing them in the spray delivery canister. Their heads tilted and pupils fluctuated as they observed his movements, occasionally he heard an answering hum, but they were mostly quiet. He opened a packet of broad spectrum anti-biotic and cleanser.

McCoy had already decided to treat the talon first. It was an open wound and almost certainly causing the most pain. He could amputate it cleanly and quickly, while the leg would have to be manipulated into a straight position. He had no idea how it would tolerate that much handling, especially if he was also causing pain. In the back of his mind was the thought that if things didn't go well, the creature could adjust to a crooked leg, but at least the talon would be fixed. He knew he could do the amputation with one swipe of the scalpel. He also knew it would hurt.

He glanced at Giotto, who nodded back. His phaser was already in his hand at his side. He thought how useless that probably would turn out to be if it should go badly. Although the creatures seemed ponderous on the ground, he had no doubt they had lighting fast reflexes. They could probably gut him before Giotto could get his phaser raised to fire.

He looked at the bigger one. "You've been in my brain already, haven't you? Tell your friend here I don't mean to hurt him. I don't think y'all will hurt me. I hope I'm right." He touched the soft scales on its chest and heard the soothing deep bell sound,like Piasa enjoyed his touch. He turned his attention to Little Birdie, who extended the injured foot to him like he was any patient during any examination. He grasped the foot in his left hand, turning it for the best angle and catching the other toes out of the way. His hand was almost not big enough. He braced his forearm against his knee, feeling the sharp edges of the talons against his fingers. Total silence from both. He squeezed the cleanser over the toe. If anything they were both quieter and even more still, like carved gargoyles. He took a deep breath and picked up the scalpel, flicking it on. The green light glowed ready. His concentration narrowed to the scalpel in his hand and the tissue he was going to cut. He envisioned the perfect slice and enabled the blade.

One swift movement and it was done. The tip with the attached talon fell to the ground. Little Birdie uttered a high pitched hissing squeal but never moved or even flinched. McCoy slowly opened his fingers and released his grip on the foot. There was no blood,only a dark place where the scalpel had cut and cauterized. Both of them looked at the new toe, minus the talon. Piasa took his foot and shoved the amputated portion away in an expression that McCoy believed was disgust. He turned the scalpel off and returned it to its case.

"That's the way it's done, my scaly birdie buddies. I feel stupid talking to you like babies, yes Uncle Lennie does, but we've done good so far. Yes we have."

Little Birdie hummed and touched McCoy's chest with his beak. He stroked the thin neck, feeling the vibration deep inside.

"OK, now we have to see about your leg before it gets dark. Are you ready for more? Lemme see." He ran his hand over the leg again, wondering how much pressure he would have to exert to straighten it, and how tolerant Little Birdie would be. He wasn't too worried. After cutting off the toe segment, there was no doubt remaining in his mind that the creatures were both highly intelligent and knew he was helping them. How they factored into his night terror was a question he was not prepared to entertain.

"Are you ready? Here goes." He gripped the leg above and below the fracture and applied pressure. Fortunately the reduction did not require much effort and he had it aligned with two light pushes. Little Birdie hissed both times, but once again held absolutely still. Piasa warbled and hummed throughout, encouragement, he thought. When the leg was straight, he sprayed the plexi-cast material on the leg, covering to the joints above and below the break. The special polymer would degrade over the course of a few weeks and fall away on its own.

He finished and gave a final pat to the ankle just above the cast, running his fingers lightly across the scales. "You've been a good patient, Little Birdie. Thank you for not killing me tonight. You, too," he said to the other. They both trilled and chimed, gentle low tones that spoke to him of gratitude and relief. He stood. They backed away from him, and with a final hum launched into flight. He felt the wind from their wings and smelled their peculiar scent that no longer seemed so disagreeable. He watched them until they were out of sight before he laughed, almost giddy with elation and relief. He found the talon, scooping it into a specimen container, picked up the tricorder and packed away his kit. His hands did not shake because, dammit, he was a doctor.


	30. Chapter 30

Giotto held the door for McCoy and then followed him inside. The others, except for Chapel and T'Phol, crowded around him as he entered, full of questions. Chapel hung back because she was well familiar with his difficult case doctor mode, and knew he would need to decompress before he would articulate his thoughts fully. T'Phol was still stung by rebuke, although she could not admit it, and resisting the notion of not belonging to the group, a feeling she knew well since she could remember. Then his eyes met hers, warm and gentle and lit with a special happiness, and she felt foolish. She looked away.

"All right," McCoy said, holding up his hand. "I will tell you about it in a few minutes. Let me clean up, get settled down and check in with the Enterprise. And get a cup of coffee." He went into the bathroom and washed his hands thoroughly. When he emerged, Chapel stepped up with a steaming cup ready. He thanked her and went into his sleeping quarters, closing the door behind him.

He shrugged out of his coat and threw it on the bed, then dropped into the desk chair and ran a hand over his face. What he knew changed things. The creatures were not only intelligent, they were sentient. Aminta belonged to them. Somehow he knew they were not pleased with the activity on their world, and their disapproval was growing. He sipped his coffee for a minute, then opened his communicator.

It took a minute for Kirk to get on. He relayed the events of the afternoon and his conclusion. Kirk was silent for a bit. McCoy knew he was considering the ramifications as well as the complications this caused for not only their mission, but the future of the scientific research and the team already on the planet.

When Kirk spoke, it was not what he expected to hear.

"I thought I asked you not to take risks."

"It wasn't that much of a risk. I treat new species often enough."

"You had no way to know they'd be docile. They could have ripped your throat out. And still might. Maybe you should come back and let Doctor M'Benga do those physicals."

McCoy felt the threat wasn't quite serious, so he waited without saying anything. On the other end, he heard Kirk sigh.

"You seem to have some sort of interest in these creatures outside the scientific realm. Everything you've just told me is subjective. You can't prove these creatures are sentient because they sang. Lots of creatures can mimic language."

"Jim, this was not 'Polly wants a cracker.'"

"If you couldn't understand the singing, how do you communicate? Are you in contact with them telepathically?"

McCoy thought of the night terror and the assurance he felt that he could read their attitude accurately. "Well, no. Not exactly."

"What exactly _is_ it, then? What makes you so certain they're more than just an intelligent animal?"

"Oh, come on, Jim. We're all 'just' an intelligent animal. Their actions were considered. They communicated with each other. They knew I was trying to help and facilitated my examination. I recorded the entire thing on the tricorder."

"That's a start, at least. Forward those recordings to the science lab."

"I will, but our best linguist is right here. And T'Phol interprets music as language."

"Fine. Have them take a look at what you've got."

"I plan on it."

"If these creatures are sentient, we need proof. And I doubt the planet administration will cooperate with any effort to find out more. Plus I am not authorized to open an inquiry. Any _official_ investigation would have to be authorized by the FSB. I could request to open an inquiry through channels, but without some concrete evidence..."

"Understood, Captain."

"Keep me informed. And no more unnecessary risk-taking. I mean it, I'll bring you back."

"Nothing unnecessary. Yes, Sir. McCoy out."

Necessary, McCoy thought, was in the eye of the beholder.

* * *

He finished his coffee, staring out the window into the gathering dark. There were a few breaks in the cloud cover that had been mostly solid all day. There was still enough light to see to the perimeter fence. No bent shapes were roosting there. Did they roost? Where did they live? How did they run their society? He logged on to the computer on his desk, but something stopped him from doing a search, a paranoia he had never before possessed. He wondered if they were being monitored and their movements tracked. He took the badge from his pocket and laid it on the desk. Then he turned on the tricorder and began reviewing his medical scan and recording.

Engrossed in his study, he didn't hear the knock at his door the first or second time. Finally Uhura opened the door and peeked in.

"Are you all right? You've been in here well over an hour now."

He looked up, surprised. Outside it was totally dark except for the compound lighting.

"Come on in. I need your help. Can you send this recording on an encoded link to the Enterprise?"

Uhura raised a brow but didn't question him. "Yes."

He gave the tricorder to her. It took a minute to make the adjustment. She opened her communicator, arranged the piggy-back transmission, and handed it back to him.

"All done." Her communicator chirped. "Transmission received."

He scrubbed at his eyes and leaned back in his chair.

"Tell me what's going on."

"I'm not sure myself. I'll tell what I can to everyone in a minute. How do you feel about translating some musical language? Do you have a universal translator with you?"

"I can get one. And we've begun work already on translating several pieces, but I think you're talking about something different."

McCoy switched the tricorder on, found a mark, and turned the screen so they both could see. Uhura watched in silence until he paused the recording. "There's a lot more," he said. "I recorded it all. You can watch the whole thing later."

"I'll need to make a copy. T'Phol will need another for the Moog." She paused. "Assuming this is speech, the universal translator does a very poor job with musical language. Tomorrow I'll run it through the database and compare with languages already on file."

"I'd rather the Aminta scientists know nothing about this."

"I won't mention it. They all work independently, so I doubt anyone would notice anyway. They're rather protective of their projects. Fortunately, few of them are working on the tonal records. T'Phol and I pretty much have that to ourselves."

He looked down. "Did you have to stop T'Phol from following me?"

"Yes, but she acquiesced when I told her she had to obey your order."

"She's still upset. I'll talk to her."

"Be easy on her. She's probably never heard your real bark before. It must be difficult when your new lover is suddenly your CO. Especially when you're not even in Starfleet. "

McCoy looked up, blushing. "She told you?"

Uhura smiled. "No."

"Evidently it complicates things." He raked a hand through his hair.

"You're always complicated." She held out her hand. "Come on, tell us about your little adventure. Then I want us all to have an outing."

"An outing? Are you crazy?"

"Crazy seems to run in our group, wouldn't you agree?"

He grinned and let her pull him up from his chair.

* * *

The others were sitting around in the lounge area. Everyone looked up when they entered. He perched on the arm of T'Phol's chair.

"Here is what happened this afternoon." He launched into the tale, shortening it to the essential elements. He did not tell about his panic or his feeling of mental communication. He finished and surveyed the faces for reaction. Giotto looked at him, shaking his head.

"I thought you were going to be killed," he said softly. "Everything seemed calm, then they suddenly flared and postured. When you were singing to them, I had aimed my phaser and was actually putting pressure on the trigger when that big one backed down."

"Thank you for not firing. Recovering from heavy stun is a bitch."

"Well, it was close. Recovering from a slit throat is probably worse." Giotto's strong, square face was uncommonly thoughtful. "You know," he added, "I think they were waiting specifically for you when you were in the clinic. They came right to you at first."

"Are they unpredictable? What set them off?" Chapel asked.

"Maybe I approached too quickly," McCoy said smoothly. "They settled down when they realized I wasn't going to hurt them." He was aware of the sets of eyes sharply on him, but no one questioned him further.

"I think these beings are sentient. Empirical evidence suggests it," he continued. "But at this point our hands are tied. I am hoping that Uhura and T'Phol can translate their sounds into language so we have some proof. I don't want anyone on Aminta involved, especially not Jasso or any of his people." He looked around the room. "Just to be clear, I don't want any of you trying to make contact with the creatures. I am pretty sure they won't hurt me, at least these two. I am also sure they could kill with one swipe, those talons are huge and sharp. They're muscular and strong. And their beaks are lined with some respectable teeth. Stay away from them."

"Do you plan to stay away from them, too?" T'Phol's tone was mild, but to him it seemed like the gauntlet thrown.

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "That's my decision to be made at another time and not for discussion or debate. But now I think Uhura has something to tell us."

Uhura jumped in quickly. "Yes, I do. According to the people we worked with today, Aminta has an amazing night sky, at least when it's visible. They have a large count of meteors almost all the time, the planet orbits in a dust belt. But tonight the planet is passing through a thick part of the cloud, and there will be a meteor storm. It is cloudy here much of the time, but there will be clearing for a couple of hours and probably the only window of opportunity for observation. There is no moon to hamper the viewing. The lights are fewer on our end of the compound, so we can find shade and enjoy the show. It's just below freezing now, but it will get colder later."

Everyone was enthusiastic about the prospect of a meteor storm, even in the cold and thin air. McCoy got his medikit and injected everyone with tri-ox and acetazolamide, except T'Phol, whose Vulcan physiology didn't need the help. They put on coats and gloves and pulled the hoods close.

"Y'all stay close by," McCoy said. "I'll be out in a minute." He caught T'Phol's arm. "Stay with me, please," he said quietly as the others left through the double pressure doors. When they were out, he turned her to him.

"I upset you. Let's get this fixed before it becomes a big thing between us."

"Vulcans do not get upset."

"Put whatever label on it that you wish. You didn't like it when I ordered the group to stay in. You argued with and were prepared to disobey that order."

"I am not a member of Starfleet."

"You're a civilian, but embedded within a Federation special operation. You are under Starfleet's protection, and hence under mine. I realize now I should've gone over this with you before we landed. This is what happens when your commander is not frequently at the helm. It simply didn't occur to me that this would come up."

He paused, then spoke slower, and with emphasis. "If I give an order, or any one of us from the Enterprise, I need to know you'll obey. It's not just your safety at stake. At any time life and death could hang on one person's actions, not only for the individual, but for the group or other members of the group. We are experienced in these types of situations. You are not. And arguing in the face of an order undermines my authority."

"You use a different set of operatives for you than for others. It was just as dangerous for you as it would have been for me. Giotto was out there. More help is better than less, is it not?"

"You're wrong," McCoy said quietly. "I needed every bit of concentration that I could muster. I couldn't afford the distraction of worrying about anyone's safety but my own. Diversion of my attention could have been fatal. Giotto is a thirty year veteran in security. He didn't get there by being impulsive or reckless. He's trained, experienced, and steady as a rock, unflappable. And he had phaser two. I didn't give him a second thought once I was out there. You," he added gently, "would have been a distraction for both Giotto and me."

He saw that hit home. She looked away for a minute, then met his eyes. "I apologize. I did not understand. It was not my intention to undermine you or put anyone at risk."

"I know. Do I have your promise, then?"

"Yes."

"Thank you." He rested his forehead against her shoulder, then straightened. "Let's go see the meteor storm."

* * *

They stepped outside. The others were around the corner standing in the shade of the building. Beyond the sphere of the artificial lighting, the scape was dark except for some patches of luminescence outside the compound making the ground glow faintly green.

The cloud cover was clearing. Overhead the night was velvet strewn with thousands of stars in alien constellations. Long streaks stretched across the zenith as the many dust particles hurtled to meet their fate. McCoy had seen some fairly active meteor showers, but nothing from his experience compared with the show on Aminta. He tried to count for a while, but soon gave up and simply watched as they streaked across, some faint, others like firebrands marking the births and deaths of kings. T'Phol moved closer to him and he pulled her into the circle of his arms.

There was little talking, and except for the occasional small gasp or soft exclamation it was quiet. The meteors were bright enough to silhouette forms against their backdrop. Occasionally someone would point out a particularly colorful or bright trail.

After a time wispy clouds began to appear, rapidly followed by heavier cover. McCoy stood with his face upturned until it was all overcast overhead and the stars and the storm lay hidden beyond a featureless black palette. He imagined somewhere out there a group of creatures trilling with soft voices. T'Phol was solid against his side. He kissed her in the dark, their faces cold against each other, and for a moment he felt content.

All filed back inside, still quietly awed. They hung up coats and gathered again in the living area.

"Thank you for suggesting this," Chapel said to Uhura.

"It seemed like a once in a lifetime chance. I didn't want to miss it."

"I am glad we didn't," said Cassady. "But what time is dinner?"

Everyone chuckled.

"Let's go get a bite," McCoy said. "Remember, light meals, carbs, hydration."

They went to the galley together. As it turned out, no one except for T'Phol and Cassady had much of an appetite. The galley had food synthesizers and some fresh food, including fruits, cereals, and snack bars. McCoy insisted that everyone get a tall glass of water. They took seats in the long hall. The sconces were lit along the walls, casting pools of light and shadow. Another table was occupied by the three Rigelians, who soon finished and departed, leaving the room solely to the Enterprise people.

McCoy nibbled at an apple while he watched the others eat. T'Phol seemed to have a constant appetite and was unaffected by the thin air. Cassady was the only one of their group who was eating like he was hungry. The others, particularly Giotto, were picking at their food with varying degrees of indifference. McCoy made a mental note to check him when they got back to their rooms.

They finished the meal and headed back to their quarters. Uhura and T'Phol made a detour to the linguistics lab. McCoy was not at all surprised when Giotto excused himself immediately and went to his room. He got his medikit and knocked at his door.

Giotto was sitting dejectedly on his bed, head in hands.

"Gonna try to ride it out, Barry?" McCoy passed the scanner over him.

Giotto made a half-hearted attempt at a chuckle. "I'm supposed to be tough."

McCoy studied the readout and took a hypo from the kit. "Thin air is tougher. Altitude sickness take a few hours to kick in. Everyone is starting to feel it except T'Phol and maybe Cass, although after while he may regret that big meal he just ate. You and I were outside longer. I'm giving you something for the headache and nausea." The hypo hissed against Giotto's shoulder.

"You have no sign of pulmonary or cerebral edema. That shot will probably make you sleepy. Chances are you'll feel better in the morning. If you feel worse during the night, call me. I'll check on you before I go to bed."

"Thanks, Doc."

McCoy patted his shoulder. "Get some rest." He closed the door quietly behind him and joined Chapel and Cassady.

"They're not back yet? How are you two feeling?"

Cassady looked up from the game he was playing. "I'm fine," he said around a mouth full of energy bar. "T'Phol wanted her Moog. The thing's heavy, but she carries it." He took another bite and went back to blasting Klingons. McCoy shook his head.

Chapel had changed into sweats and was curled in an armchair sipping tea. "How's Barry?"

"He's not feeling too great. I gave him the standard tazocap cocktail." He looked at her with his clinician's eye. "You're a little pallid yourself."

"I'm all right, just a headache. No nausea or other symptoms. I took OTC."

Uhura and T'Phol returned. As Cassady had said, T'Phol was carrying the Moog. She hoisted it onto a table and unlatched the cover. Uhura went into her room and reappeared with her tricorder. She looked at McCoy. "Let's have yours, too."

He retrieved it from his desk, then went back to change into sweats himself. Their area had a beverage synthesizer, so he got a water, draped himself over the end of the sofa and watched them set up the Moog.

"Where's Barry?" Uhura asked.

"He went to bed not feeling well. How 'bout you? Headache? Nausea?"

Uhura seesawed her hand. "Not really, just tired and generally yukky."

McCoy lifted an eyebrow. "I'll have to add yukky to my list of symptoms."

"Malaise, then. Would you like that in fourteen different languages?"

McCoy chuckled. "Is that how many you speak?"

"No. I have a UFP Translator Certificate in that many. I can talk conversationally in twice that, and know enough to ask where the bathroom is in a few more."

"Polyglotish showoff."

"It's called hyperpolyglot, viisastelija."

"Viisastelija?"

"Smart ass, in Finnish," Uhura said. "It sounds a lot nicer pronounced with your Southern accent."

Cassady laughed, then scowled. "You made me waste a photon torpedo."

"Child."

T'Phol attached McCoy's tricorder to the Moog and put on headphones, listening intently. She closed her eyes in concentration as she often did when playing. McCoy wondered if she was seeking a Tap, or if that even worked with a recording. Then she watched the recording with rapt attention, hardly even blinking.

Finally she laid the headphones aside and removed the tricorder. Her eyes were on McCoy,thoughtful and questioning. He resisted the impulse to demand her thoughts immediately.

"Listen to this." She touched a switch and McCoy's voice sang Blackbird. "You sang in the key of G. Here is the creature's rendition." The layered voice sounded fuller and more melodic on the recording than McCoy remembered.

"There must be multiple chambers in its voice box, or whatever anatomical structure is producing the sound. It is singing the melody line, along with baritone and bass. And it has embellished with several additional new chords and many instances of grace notes, mordents and trills. All of this while transcribing the song into E Minor."

"Is it language?"

"When considered with the entire recording, I would say the song portion is elaborate mimicry, but executed with a purpose. Perhaps reproduction is a more suitable term. The other sounds they make, although not as intricate as the singing, more closely resemble speech patterns. But either way, this is rather incredible.

"Doctor McCoy sang the melody line. In the first verse, his voice was not steady, it wavered and had a slightly off pitch note or two, which is understandable given the circumstances. The creature transcribed an entire _perfect_ score in a twenty-four second time span, and then sang in flawless three part harmony. It recognized lyrical mistakes and corrected them. One thing is certain. Whatever these creatures may be, this one, at least, is a composer of extraordinary skill. It will be interesting to compare its version to the original Beatles work."

"So if I went out there and said 'Da-da-da DAH', would they write Mozart's Fifth Symphony?" Cassady had laid his game aside.

"Beethoven's. That would be an interesting exercise. Surely they compose songs for themselves. I would love to hear them." She looked at McCoy. "I agree that the creatures possess high intelligence. I do not know if they understood your words, or responded to your tone, but there can be no doubt they cooperated with your examination far more than a wild beast would have."

"But what about their language? Can you translate it?" McCoy hoped he didn't sound as anxious as he felt.

"If it is primarily linguistic, more than likely. It may turn out to be a study of accidence in tonality."

"And we have not had the chance to compare with our linguistics base," Uhura said. "We have no interface outside of the lab."

"Or it may have telepathic components which are out of reach for traditional methods."

"Telepathic?" Uhura's brow creased.

McCoy looked back and forth between them, curbing his impatience and frustration, not wanting to escalate a discussion about their possible telepathic ability.

"Are the facilities here as good as those aboard the Enterprise?" he asked.

"Except for ease of access, and the unknown security factor, they both tap into essentially the same data bank in straight linguistics. We have far more information on coding and encryption, of course."

"So you and T'Phol should be able to work with it here without alerting the other scientists."

Chapel watched the conversation, hearing his anxiety and struggling to understand why. McCoy was sometimes prone to indulge in pet projects, but this sudden interest in the bird creatures seemed odd and bordering on obsessive.

"Yes, we can work on the translation, but I cannot know how secret our research will remain. There's another problem." Uhura hesitated. "We don't have much to work from. If the database doesn't have something in the proto-family, we may not have enough for MAHT algorithm."

Chapel closed her eyes in weary trepidation, knowing he would not be dissuaded from trying to gather more sample 'speech'. She was afraid of the creatures, afraid for him.

"You'll try?" McCoy looked from Uhura to T'Phol.

"Yes," Uhura said. "Tomorrow we'll access and cross-reference the database."

T'Phol nodded. "Of course." She closed the Moog and went into her room for a sweater, then joined McCoy on the couch. She sat toward the edge, but he pulled her next to his side. "Is this allowed?" she whispered, settling gratefully into his warmth.

"It's not like they don't already know," he said quietly.

Uhura sat in the chair closest to them with a PADD and McCoy's tricorder.. She transferred the recording, then listened on earphones. When she finished, the room was quiet. Cass was reading, either the Klingons were vanquished or he was out of torpedoes, and Chapel appeared to be dozing.

McCoy felt his own eyes getting heavy. He relaxed, folding T'Phol's hand in his and closed his eyes.

Uhura made a few notes before putting her work away, rubbing her forehead and resting her head against the back of the chair. She watched McCoy and T'Phol from under her lashes, somewhat surprised at his outward display of affection. Not that he wasn't demonstrative, he was a toucher, a hugger. Ever the courtly southern gentleman, his flirtations were elegant and refined. She was on the receiving end of a lot of that and she reciprocated in kind, knowing they were, at the root of their relationship, dear friends, and any quasi-sexual undertones were safe in his keeping.

He was quiet about his personal life. She knew vaguely of the bitter divorce in his past, but she was aware of only two relationships since he joined the Enterprise. Neither was long-lived. Her best friend, Janice Rand,who had known practically everything that happened aboard the ship, told her about Tonia Barrows. It was Janice's frosty opinion that Yeoman Barrows was marking time waiting for her reassignment and McCoy was just one handy diversion among others. Uhura never told him that she knew about Barrows. If he pined following her departure, he never let it show.

And the priestess of the Fabrini. Natira. He told Uhura her name when he was recuperating from xenopolycythemia and its cure. In a moment of self-reproach he told her a bit of the story, angry at himself for using her because he thought he was dying. Privately, Uhura wondered who was using whom. He never spoke of it again with her, even following the Enterprise's visit to New Fabrina, but she had a feeling he still carried that guilt.

Uhura considered the young woman sitting close to him. At first glance it seemed like an unlikely pairing, her Vulcan restraint versus his barely under-the-surface emotional stew. But T'Phol, although reserved, was not stoic, and McCoy was uncommonly perceptive. There was some part of that story she didn't know, an underlying puzzle piece was missing. Uhura was sure he had anticipated her arrival, even though he was unfamiliar with her as an entertainer. T'Phol obviously had a crush on him from the beginning, and McCoy, the reticent and private man who kept almost everyone at a distance, inexplicably gravitated toward that attraction, facilitating and nurturing its growth. Uhura knew he was chronically lonely and currently going through what he called a 'bad patch'. The new romance seemed to have halted his downward spiral into moroseness and withdrawal, at least for a time. She wondered how intertwined the relationship had become with his mental state and what devastation or salvation might lie in store when it was time for the mission to end and T'Phol returned to Vulcan.

Uhura put away the tricorder and went to her room to change. When she returned, she thought McCoy was napping, but he spoke without opening his eyes.

"Get something to drink while you're up. Are you still feeling yukky?"

She got a glass of water and pulled a chair closer.

"A little. Its not bad, really."

He opened his eyes, looking at her closely, then nodded. "I'll give you something at bedtime." His eyes sought the clock. "What time is it anyway?"

"It says eighteen two." Uhura took a few sips and set her glass down. "Almost ten hours until daylight and hour one." She paused. "Len, I have an important question."

McCoy met her eyes evenly. "You'd better ask it, then."

"How are you communicating with these creatures?"

Beside him, T'Phol was very still.

When he didn't answer, Uhura leaned closer. "I watched the recording." She spoke quietly, but there was real insistence in her tone, as if she expected a real answer. "You talked and sang, and they both cooperated. You acted as though you understood them. They seemed to understand you."

"I don't know," McCoy finally said. "I just had a feeling they're intelligent. They don't act like a wild animal. Or a domesticated one, for that matter."

"Something else is going on here, isn't there? Somehow I don't think you've told us the whole story. There must be more."

"Yes, there is," Chapel had quietly crossed the room and took a seat beside T'Phol on the couch. "At the clinic this afternoon you _knew_ they were there to see you. They ignored Giotto, but as soon as you appeared the one you call Piasa came right to the window. They were _waiting_ for you, and you were not surprised at all."

Uhura stared. "On the tape, you said Piasa had been in your brain before. What did you mean? Are you in communication with it telepathically?"

"I can't answer all those questions. I don't understand it either."

Uhura sighed. "If we are to prove they are sentient, it would be immensely helpful to know how they communicate."

"I can't tell you what I don't know." McCoy's voice carried a bit of heat.

"Then tell us what you _do_ know." Uhura rubbed her temple, feeling rankled herself. "This is not the time for secrets."

"OK." McCoy stood and spoke with no trace of the south, biting each syllable, and using his hands for emphasis. "I do think I understand them, at least on some superficial level. I do not know why or how. I get a sense of empathy from them rather than telepathy. As far as I can tell, I am not speaking with them using telepathy. They do not talk to me inside my head, or at least I am not aware of it. I had a strong feeling they were not going to harm me, and they did not." He paused. "Maybe they sent me that feeling as a message. Maybe I imagined it, or indulged in wishful thinking. The outcome was the same."

He reached for his glass and finished the water, looking at Uhura and Chapel as the hardness fell away from his features. "Does that help? It's all I have for now."

"I'm not trying to make this difficult for you. We all want the same thing here," Uhura said. "We need to be on the same page. There's not much time to solve this puzzle."

"I know." He ran a hand through his hair. "I know, and it's damned frustrating."

"Maybe our investigation tomorrow will bear fruit," Uhura said gently. "T'Phol and I will do everything we can to decipher their language."

"If it _is_ language," Chapel said. "Please be careful, Doctor McCoy."

McCoy looked at Chapel with sudden comprehension. "You're afraid of them, aren't you? I don't need to be."

"For a pessimist, you're being exceptionally optimistic," she retorted. "I hope these creatures share your utopian outlook." She stood, hugging her arms to her chest. "I'm chilly, I have a headache, and I'm going to bed. Good night, everyone."

"Hang on a minute." McCoy reached for a scanner and his medical tricorder. "Everyone gets the once-over before bed."

He did Chapel first, looking at her readings and palmed the scanner.

"I told you I was fine," she said.

"Why don't you let me give you something for the headache? There's no need for you to suffer because you're irritated with me." His mouth quirked in a smile.

She shook her head. "I'm not irritated." At his look, she had to smile herself. "It's not all irritation," she amended. "It's mostly concern for your hide. And your vital organs. Fine, give me the shot."

Uhura gladly accepted the hypo. Cassady claimed he felt just fine, but McCoy ran a scan on him. "Come and get me if your stomach hurts later. And no more snacks tonight."

Cassady grinned. "OK, Doc, whatever you say."

McCoy chuckled. "You have the constitution of a buzzard."

"Isn't that supposed to be a horse?"

"Horses in reality have sensitive digestive systems, prone to all sorts of problems and upsets, particularly torsion and colic. Turkey vultures can eat almost anything at any stage of decomposition. Their GI tracts are very acidic, and laden with prolific and numerous types of toxic bacteria that would kill you or me, and are present in some numbers on their exterior as well. So don't try to kiss one."

Cassady stared at him, eyes wide. McCoy patted his arm. "Call me if you need me."

'Yes, Sir." He picked up his game and went to his room, closing the door softly behind him. McCoy turned to T'Phol. "Your turn."

She raised a brow. "Unnecessary, but your prerogative."

"Thank you." He expected no problems and found none. "You're A-one, as expected."

"I am accustomed to the thinner atmosphere." She paused, they were alone. "May we speak?"

"Of course. Let me check on Barry first, then I'm yours."

* * *

Giotto was sleeping. McCoy took a reading and was satisfied. By the time he finished and went to the bathroom, T'Phol had changed into night clothes and a thick robe, and had a blanket as well. He dimmed the lighting and joined her on the couch. She threw the blanket over them both, snuggling close to share his warmth. They sat in silence for a few minutes. She rubbed his neck, a gesture that conversely could be relaxing or arousing. McCoy reached for her free hand and ran his thumb over her radial process, gently feeling the shape of the bone, drawing triangles around it.

"What did you want to talk about?"

"I am not sure you will want to discuss it."

"Try me." He rested his head against her shoulder.

"It concerns your interaction with the creatures."

McCoy halted his motion for a second, then resumed. "I've already been over that."

"Yes. And you undoubtedly told some of the truth. I have a different question."

"What?"

"Why did you panic? Please do not say you moved too quickly and frightened them. That was not the sequence of events. You panicked first, and the birds reacted to your sudden alarm. That much is clear.

"There is another element to consider here as well." T'Phol continued. "From the accounts we have heard from you, Nurse Chapel, and Officer Giotto, we must infer they came to you specifically to get help. Such an action might perhaps be explained by your aura of healing, particularly if they are extremely psi aware. But why did Piasa approach you the first time, in Jasso's office? If they are receiving or sending telepathic or empathic impressions, they must have powerful minds. Yet I sense no more of their mental presence than with anyone else here. And Jasso thinks they are wild animals. Why haven't they communicated with the scientists already here?"

"I have an aura?"

"To use the inaccurate Terran term, yes, and it is pronounced. But stop trying to re-direct." T'Phol removed her hand from his neck and regarded him steadily, patiently.

McCoy was quiet for a moment, then he straightened to face her.

"Thank you for not asking this in front of everyone."

"So there is something hidden in your interactions with the birds."

"It's hard to explain and make it seem like I'm still sane."

T'Phol reached for his hands. "It is your turn to try me."

He held her gaze, then nodded.

"You remember my night terror?"

"I shall never forget," she said solemnly.

"They were there." He closed his eyes briefly, as the foreboding still lurking at the edge of his memory returned in full force.

He sensed T'Phol's still and focused attention, but she was silent, waiting for him to continue.

"I was in the woods, bare trees like clawing fingers, sky like boiling lead." His hands tightened around hers and he opened his eyes. His pupils were wide.

"The wind was cold, I was shivering. I think I was lost. I was hiding from something, I don't know what. Something dangerous. I was hiding, but hiding was useless. I knew they were coming for me."

His voice dropped to a whisper so low she strained to hear.

"I knew when they found me something bad would happen, something worse than death." He shivered. "Then I smelled an odor born on the wind, sharp, acrid, bitter. After that I came to, and you were there."

He swallowed, then continued. "It's true, Piasa came looking for me. I don't know how or why, but I understood he had come to find me, he needed me. I knew he wouldn't hurt me. When I went out to meet them, everything was going fine until I got close enough to smell them. The same odor in my terror, no mistaking it. And yes, I am ashamed to say I panicked. I started singing 'Blackbird', it came into my mind and I sang." He cleared his throat. "Piasa didn't understand my sudden fear, it scared him and Little Birdie. It startled and frightened them, but neither attacked. _Neither attacked_. They curbed their fear and waited without a primal response."

He realized how tightly he was squeezing her hands and loosened his grip, gently rubbing instead. "I realize now how turned around my interpretation was. That smell didn't represent the danger, it wasn't the reason I was hiding. Piasa was there to protect me. Now I understand."

"How could they be connected with your night terror? Have you ever dreamed of them before?"

"I don't always remember details. But I'm sure never before."

"Why did you not tell Uhura and Chapel? Are you afraid they will not believe you?"

"Maybe I'm afraid they will. No one needs to be aware of this insanity but me, at least not yet."

"I do not understand your reluctance. What you describe is not insanity. I believe it is a form of communication."

He looked at her gravely. "It's not just the birds. No one knows about my night terrors. It's something of an abnormality for them to continue in adulthood. There would be all sorts of testing and reports to be made, and inquiries concerning my mental health, which is probably already rated in some circles as precarious at best. They would probably want to treat it medically, with pharmaceuticals. Would you want to trust your life to a surgeon who has such vivid nightmarish events that his sleep is disrupted, or worse, who dreams of things, then believes they've come to pass? That's the stuff from which madness is built."

"I disagree. Have previous terrors been like this? Have you ever felt your dream was a portend or the subject matter was coming to life?"

McCoy shook his head. "Not like this, no."

T'Phol withdrew a hand from his grasp and worried at the thumbnail with her teeth as she thought.

"The question here might be what makes this particular terror different from those in the past" she mused aloud. "What was different? Proximity to Aminta. You were sleep deprived. You played guitar and sang earlier in the evening, activities you normally kept hidden. You had breathed a toxic agent just two days earlier and had taken many medications. You were in physical contact with a telepathic species."

"Could it be that somehow your telepathic ability amplified a message that I otherwise could not have received?"

T'Phol hesitated, looking inward. "I do not think so," she finally said. "I am not a particularly strong telepath. I have neither recollection of your dream nor residual memory artifact that would indicate such an event had occurred without my cognizance. The answer must lie elsewhere. They are musical. Perhaps that is the catalyst. Possibly lack of sleep opened a conduit in your mind."

"If being musical was the deciding factor, they'd be talking to you instead of me, don't you think? And I'm a doctor. Sleep deprivation is a common state. That was certainly nothing new."

"What about the medications you were given?"

McCoy shrugged. "Nothing unusual there, steroids, bronchodilators." He stopped abruptly. "Nothing out of the ordinary in the treatment, but the defkato was certainly unusual. In fact, I spent some time studying the components, but not in the lab. The medical lab ran the usual tests, which normally are sufficiently thorough, but something kept nagging at me There are some unknown elements that on the surface appear to be botanical in nature. Other things took priority so I didn't get a chance to follow through."

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, fighting a headache, whether from the atmosphere or his tension he couldn't have said.

"I'll make a call to the Enterprise this evening and ask M'Benga to have the science department throw everything they have at it. Then I'm taking something for this headache and going to bed. I can't think about this any more tonight." He pulled T'Phol close. "Thank you for believing in me."

She leaned into him. "Of course I believe in you. I do have one last question, if I may."

He huffed into her shoulder. "One more."

"Why do you call the creature Piasa? Did it tell you its name? Can you tell whether it is male or female?"

McCoy chuckled, looking up. "That was three questions. I don't know their gender for sure. I haven't run the readings through a bio-comp, but I get a feeling they're both male. I also have a specimen to send to the ship that will give us their genetic code.

"He did not tell me his name. Piasa came immediately to my mind the first time I saw him. Piasa was a fearsome man-eating bird creature in prehistoric Native American legend. The original petroglyph was destroyed, but from drawings we know it depicted a creature much like the ones here. Piasa in legend was larger, big enough to carry off a warrior."

"Let us hope the Amintian counterpart is not so inclined."

"If I'm right about their sentience, and I know I am, Aminta belongs to them and the Federation will have to open diplomatic contact to be allowed to continue their work here. That's one reason it's so important to be able to communicate with them."

T'Phol laid her hand against his cheek. "I will do everything I can to discover their language. But please take extra precaution for your safety."

"I told you they won't hurt me."

"I was not referring to Piasa. Your terror indicated an extreme danger to you, perhaps to us all. If it was indeed some form of communication or warning, and the birds are not the thing you were fearing, the real peril may still await, hidden."

"I'll be careful." He captured her hand and kissed the palm, then her mouth before letting go. "I'm contacting M'Benga and beaming up the specimen I collected earlier." He paused. "As much as I'd prefer to have you with me, I'm saying goodnight now. Command decorum and all that."

"I understand. Goodnight, Leonard." T'Phol hugged him close for a minute, then gathered the blanket and went to her room.

McCoy watched until her door closed, then went to his own room. He made the call to M'Benga, who had the talon specimen beamed aboard. He ran the scanner over himself before taking a pill for his headache,and left his door slightly ajar in case any of his people needed him during the night. The room seemed chilly, so he slid into bed and covered with blankets. He mused for a moment on how quickly he had become accustomed to having T'Phol next to him. His bed seemed empty and cold, as it had for years, but somehow it was even emptier and colder. He turned on his side, banished the thoughts of time ticking away and eventually slept.


	31. Chapter 31

To an outside observer, she might have appeared to be dozing, beak resting against her chest, her breaths slow and regular. She was not sleeping. Eldest Mother was watching through Third Son's Eye, the images bright and strong. Her own eyes were getting old and rheumy, their acuity not as keen as it was in her prime, but her mind was as far-seeing as always. Perhaps more so, as though lessening of her physical vision had amplified the internal Eye. She watched until Third Son and his Fledgling took wing before returning her awareness to her own perch.

One of her Daughters had brought the evening's offering to the den, and was waiting respectfully for her attention. She dismounted and crossed the atrium to accept the gift of life, gave the customary thanks, and released its essence into the One. The Sons and Daughters always took care that her portion was from the sweetest spot. Maybe with age her taste was fading along with her eyesight, but she ate from a sense of thankfulness and duty, then drank and washed when she was finished. She would not be untidy in her dotage.

She stretched carefully, smoothing her primaries into place. A young Daughter came to her, offering to groom the places that were now hard for her to reach. She hummed her consent and gratitude, and sang an ancient memory as Daughter smoothed and oiled scapulars and coverts.

After a time she felt the stir of air that announced an entry into the den. Third Son and Fledgling had arrived. She heard greeting songs, laden with curiosity. She watched as they entered the common area and summoned them to her. Third Son waited while the young one sang his adventure, the tale embellished through a great deal of excitement. Eldest Mother listened as she examined the material covering his injured leg. She snuffed, the smell was unlike any that had ever entered their den. It was an odor of things not of their Tribe, or even their world. Mingled with that was the organic scent left by the Salortog, the one Fledgling called 'Uncalenni'. The torn claw was neatly shorn with no smell of darkness. Mother thought it should heal and leave no disability. She hummed her approval despite her misgivings.

Fledgling finished his song, waiting expectantly. Mother sang it back to him, adding it to the Tribal story. She preened him a bit in thanks before sending him to eat and show off his mended leg to the others. Third Son watched him leave, then bowed to Mother. Her pupils dilated with loving regard, then constricted as she thought of the danger the Salortag presented to their world.

Third Son heard her doubt and spoke through their link. {This Salortog is different. He is Endilinti.}

Mother ruffled involuntarily. Third Son smoothed her mantle before speaking again.

{You saw the fire lights falling from the sky?}

{The fire lights have fallen before, even within my own story.}

{I saw him in my Eye. Now he is here. He is Endilinti.}

{He was afraid.}

Third Son thought of the rightness of her statement.

{Yes, for a short time. His Eye is shrouded. He sees only in glimpses.}

{Should Endilinti not see brightly?}

{Doktor sees brightness in other ways. He shines, but darkly. He is Healer to his people. To Fledgling.}

{Two names?}

Third Son's pupil constricted with humor.

{More. He is Doktor inside to himself. Yet he is also Uncalennie. Makoy. Bones. Linord.} He looked at Mother. {Name is not lifesong for the Salortog. Fledgling he calls Liddleburtee. He named me Py-a-saw.} He sent the word carefully and saw Mother turning it in her thought.

{A short calling for your story.}

{Their lives are short. They spend them alone. There is only Doktor inside his shell. No Tribe.} Third Son dipped his head in sorrow.

Eldest Mother touched her beak to his in comfort.

{Salortog are not like Tribe. Darkness is here. You see far. Do not forget to see with wisdom.}

{Doktor is Endilinti. It shall pass as was foretold.}


	32. Chapter 32

**I hope everyone enjoyed meeting the birds. Thank you for staying with us this far. I will be away from my computer for a few days, so this is the last update for a bit. I hope to illustrate while I am off electronics, it should soothe my withdrawal! Review and CC is welcome. This story has not been beta-ed, so if you see typos or other problems, please mention them!**

* * *

He stood on a high place. Above him stars fell from the firmament like flaming tears.

{Fire lights.}

He watched until the sky turned grey with clouds and the meteors lay hidden once again.

He looked down. Beneath his feet a path glowed, almost imperceptibly.

A Tap line, but not as he had imagined. His eyes tried to follow the path, but as it led away from his feet the way turned dark. He felt the wind stir, colder, with misting rain. The woods seemed closer. He smelled the dampness like malignancy, heard the branches scraping together like arthritic bones.

{Bones.}

The path led to the wood. He knew he must take that direction, but he stood silent and still, refusing that first step to meet the darkness. He peered into the gloom, looking for reassurance that the way continued beyond his sight.

{Search with your Eye.}

The wind changed, bringing the familiar dry and bitter odor to his nostrils. He felt compelled to move and his feet started walking almost without his bidding. Ahead he could discern a faint glow that disappeared if he looked at it directly. He averted his eyes to get the most from his scotopic vision. In the blackness to either side he could see nothing, but he heard rustling and footfall dogging his steps. He resisted the urge to run.

Ahead the glow was stronger but still in the distance. He was certain something was following and getting closer. He felt the hair on his neck prickle. He had no phaser or weapon of any kind, not even his tricorder, but reaching into his pocket he felt a medical scanner, a key, and a third object he couldn't identify. He started to remove it when a cold hand clamped around the back of his neck. He punched back with his elbow as hard as he could, throwing his weight into the blow, and connected with something solid. They both fell backward as he twisted viciously, tearing loose from the icy grasp. He hit the ground hard, light flashing at the edge of consciousness, and heard the other scrabbling, coming to finish him. He realized he was holding an object in his hand.

{Tribe.}

He gripped hard and swung blindly in a wide arc toward his assailant, felt the blow land and heard a whispering scream. Suddenly he was alone, shivering in the dark as cold drizzle fell on his face and into his eyes.

{You are Endilinti.}

'No,' he whispered. 'I'm a Doctor.'

* * *

McCoy came to with a gasp, sprawled in his bed and gripping a handful of his pillow. The blankets were strewn on the floor and he was cold and clammy. He sat up, swallowing against the hot saliva flooding his mouth and waited for his heart rate to calm. When no one came rushing into his room, he assumed he had not made enough noise to awaken the others. He went to the bathroom, standing over the bowl, spitting until the nausea passed. He checked briefly on Giotto before returning to his room. The Aminta clock read twenty-three. He collected the bed covers and bunched them around him in a cocoon until only his eyes and nose were visible, turning his back to the window. He did not want to see the night or anything that might be a part of it. He did not want to think of the birds or the woods or shooting stars or Endilinti.

He was mentally tracing and reciting the nerve pathways of his fifth species when he finally fell asleep again.


	33. Chapter 33

T'Phol was the first of the group to get up. She bathed and was dressed before dawn. The synthesizers were programmed for several varieties of Vulcan tea. She sipped as she looked out at the darkness, thinking about McCoy's terrors and the Aminta creatures. She believed without reservation that the connection through his dream was real although unexplained, much like the mental connection she shared with him at times. She wondered if she and the bird would be able to communicate and to what extent. Music was called the universal language, although that old saying referred to the emotional connection and not linguistics. Leonard thought of Piasa in emotional terms. She considered the likelihood of establishing a Tap with an alien species.

T'Phol finished her tea just as the dark was showing a hint of light. McCoy's door was slightly open. She peeked in, saw his form huddled under a messy pile of blankets. She started to back out when he spoke, his voice muffled under the covers.

She entered the small room and sat on the edge of his bed. She patted the lump where his head was and heard his soft chuckle. He worked a hand free and uncovered his head, touching her cheek.

"Good morning." She smoothed his hair across his forehead. "You are entangled. Did you have a restless night?"

"I woke up cold. You're up early."

"It is approaching daylight. Aminta time is twenty-eight seven."

"Damned time keeping system here makes me want to stay in bed." He took a deep breath. "I guess that means I have about two hours until clinic." T'Phol watched as he began working his way from the rumpled bedding until he could sit up unencumbered by sheets and blankets.

"Don't laugh," he grunted, seeing her amusement.

She raised an eyebrow. "I was not laughing."

"I know Vulcan laughter when I see it. I'm getting in the shower." He stood, kissing the top of her head and took his bag into one of the bathrooms. T'Phol straightened his bed while she waited, then went to the living area and got another cup of tea. Uhura and Chapel came out of their rooms almost at the same time. Uhura took the first turn in the bath while Chapel fixed a cup of coffee, heavy with cream and sugar, and sat at the table beside T'Phol. She took a sip, making a face.

"The coffee is not satisfactory?"

Chapel laughed. "I really don't like coffee much. I never drank it until I started nursing. Somewhere between not liking it and my second year on the Enterprise, I found I needed a cup to get started. I blame Doctor McCoy. He lives on the foul brew."

"Nectar of the Gods, you mean," McCoy said, exiting the bath. He took his bag to his room and reappeared with his medikit. He got his own cup and joined them at the table.

"Coffee saved many a med student through medical school and residency, including me. Replicated stuff is not the same. Any time we're on Earth, I stock up on the real thing." He took a sip. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"My headache's better. I feel like I could eat a little breakfast."

Uhura finished and she and Chapel traded places. McCoy finished his coffee then went to check on Cassady and Giotto.

Cassady answered his knock, sleepy, but showing no sign of altitude sickness and ready for breakfast. McCoy left him getting ready and went to Giotto's door, knocking softly. Giotto called for him to come in, sounding stronger than he had the previous evening. McCoy entered to find him sitting on the bed finishing a glass of water. He drained it before addressing McCoy.

"I woke up thirsty just a minute ago. Thanks for leaving the water within reach. I could drink another, but I need to pee first.

McCoy chuckled as he ran the scanner. "That's good to hear, Barry." He checked the readings and prepared a hypo.

"Do I need another hypo, Doc? I feel better this morning." Giotto looked at him mournfully.

McCoy had learned shortly after joining the Enterprise the tough landing party security chief detested the hypo. He suppressed a smile. "This is a little different than the shot you had last night. You are better, and I want to keep you that way. I don't know if we'll be outside today or not, but if we are this gives you a head start on acclimation. Here ya go, Bucko."

Giotto sighed and tried not to flinch as the tube hissed against his arm.

* * *

They had breakfast together in the common hall. Another table was occupied by a few Human scientists who spoke briefly and then ignored the Enterprise group until they finished eating and left.

"Friendly sort, aren't they?" McCoy remarked between bites of hot cereal.

Cassady snorted. "That group works in the linguistics lab. You have no idea."

Uhura shrugged. "It's just as well for today at least. But their isolationist and protective work habits are stunting their own useful output here. Some very interesting findings are going unnoticed and un-published. For instance, there is evidence that Aminta may have been a clandestine site for pirate activity, mostly in drug trafficking,"

They were interrupted by the click of heels against the stone floor as Arnette approached their table, tablet in hand. McCoy rose to his feet. "Good morning."

She nodded brusquely. "Doctor McCoy, the pertinent medical records and exam schedule for today have been sent to the clinic computer. Your first patient should arrive at hour two. The final group of on-site workers will come in later this evening. Assuming today's schedule proceeds to plan, tomorrow should conclude the mandatory physical exams."

McCoy nodded. "Barring complications, I'd say that's likely."

"Very well. Mister Jasso prefers a concrete schedule. I shall keep him informed. Good day." She pivoted to leave, but Uhura spoke quickly.

"Miss Arnette, We'd like to visit one of the sites while we're here."

Arnette turned back. "I am not sure that will be possible. Nor perhaps advisable. The climate is not forgiving to the un-acclimated."

"There are drugs that we can use short term to control the symptoms. And T'Phol is Vulcan."

Arnette's lips pressed together in a firm, thin line. "I will investigate the possibility and let you know later today." She nodded and left at a hurried pace.

McCoy sat, looking at Uhura who was frowning at Arnette's retreating back. "In other words," he said, "don't hold your breath."

Uhura stabbed at her eggs. "It would be interesting to see some work in progress, maybe give us a feel for how it was when this place was bustling with activity."

"The base station seems oppressive," Giotto said. "I'd like to see something outside of here, too." He spread some jam on his toast.

McCoy grunted. "Don't worry, Barry. If anyone leaves the base you'll be along for the ride."

* * *

They finished breakfast, returning briefly to their rooms to prepare for their respective days. Uhura's group left for the linguistics lab, T'Phol carrying the Moog which had McCoy's recording loaded in its memory. He stopped himself from saying anything about their research in that area, knowing he had taxed Uhura's patience already and nagging would be unlikely to help. He gathered his medikit and badge, and he, Chapel, and Giotto went to the clinic. Set-up went quickly and they were ready early.

McCoy paced to the windows and looked out on the dim morning. It was darker than the day before, the cloud cover heavier. Misty rain had fallen, then frozen during the night. Icy drops glistened on the evergreen needles and succulent leaves, poised to drip when the temperature rose above freezing. He would not have been surprised to see Piasa or his kin sitting on the perimeter wall, but the yard was empty. He was still somewhat unsettled by the night terror, feeling like those suspended globules, aware he was at the edge of something but not knowing when the fall might occur. He was certain Piasa saw what was in his mind, recognized the danger, and was trying to help defend against it, whatever 'it' was. He had an uncomfortable thought that perhaps Piasa needed his help just as much. The unknown word reverberated in his memory.

Endilinti.

He brought himself from his reverie as Chapel joined him at the window. She peered into the gloom. The cold, colorless view made her shiver, but her apprehension was somewhat relieved when she saw there were no creatures waiting outside. She turned away from the window and looked at McCoy.

"Are you disappointed they're not there?"

He shrugged, still surveying the landscape. "Maybe it's better if they stay out of sight for a while. Jasso threatened them yesterday. I need time to gather evidence to prove their sentience."

Chapel frowned. "Beyond translating their language?"

McCoy turned his back to the window, facing her. "Uhura says tonal languages are tough to decipher, especially when they are primarily musical. The translation may take a long time. They need protection now."

"Jasso never said he was going to harm them."

McCoy flared. " Aminta belongs to Piasa and his family. Jasso and his ilk don't get to dictate what the Tribe can do _on their own_ _planet_!"

Chapel was startled. "Tribe?"

McCoy inwardly cursed his slip. "Have to call them something. Piasa is a Native American name. Indians lived in tribes."

"Leonard..." Chapel shook her head, still wary. "I was hard on you yesterday, and I probably should apologize. I admit I'm afraid of your creatures. I don't understand your obsession, and I'm concerned." She lowered her voice. "And I think you're hiding something." She held up her hand to stop his protest. "Don't say it," she warned. "As a liar, you are totally unconvincing. But you're a master when it comes to keeping things to yourself."

The first patient of the day arrived. McCoy sent up a silent huzzah at the timing as he and Chapel turned their attention to clinic work and away from what he did or didn't know about Piasa and the Tribe.

* * *

McCoy and Chapel were seeing their last patient before lunch when Osmond Jasso strode into the clinic, obviously buzzing with agitation. Giotto was sitting in the small entry area. and rose to meet the florid faced Jasso.

"Hello, Sir. May I help you?" Giotto kept his tone deliberately calm.

"Where is he?" Jasso demanded. "Where's McCoy?"

Giotto moved casually between the treatment room and Jasso.

"Doctor McCoy and Nurse Chapel are with a patient. They shouldn't be long if you would like to wait."

Jasso took a step toward the doorway that led to the treatment area to find Giotto planted firmly in his path.

"Out of my way," Jasso ordered. "I need to see McCoy now!"

"Is there a medical emergency?"

Jasso's eyes glittered with fury. "This facility is under my jurisdiction, and I will go where I want and speak with whomever I please. Step aside."

"I am afraid not, Sir. You will have to wait until he is finished." Giotto was in full security officer mode. Although he neither moved nor raised his voice, Jasso recoiled as if struck, then recovered, his face boiling with indignation.

McCoy's head appeared around the doorway. "What the hell is going on out here?"

Jasso glared around Giotto's solid form. "I need to speak to you immediately."

"If it's not bleeding or on fire it can wait. I am with a patient. I'll be another ten minutes or so."

"I am a busy man," Jasso sputtered.

"And I have a patient," McCoy said, with less fire than Giotto expected. "I understand if you're too busy to wait." He withdrew back into the treatment room, leaving a gaping Jasso.

Giotto gestured to the chair, "Would you like a seat?" As a trained security officer, his features were schooled in neutrality, allowing no hint of amusement to cross his face as Jasso angrily plopped in the chair to wait.

McCoy took his time in finishing the physical, then did a thorough documentation on the chart before cleaning up and exiting the treatment area. The wait did nothing to improve Jasso's mood. He jumped to his feet when McCoy and Chapel finally walked through the door, seething with angry impatience.

"Listen here..."

McCoy held up a hand to stop the tirade before he could begin. "Just a minute. You two go on to lunch," he said to Chapel and Giotto. "I'll be along shortly."

Giotto nodded. "Yes, Sir. We'll wait for you to join us there." He looked briefly at Jasso, making sure he got the message. His years in security had honed Giotto's innate skill at evaluating a person's strengths and weaknesses and sensing moods of both individuals and crowds. He recognized the empty bluster and inflated sense of importance that Jasso displayed. In his experience, those traits seemed all too common in low level bureaucracy. Such people _could_ be dangerous if they were loose canons, but he had a feeling Jasso was a by-the-book operator. McCoy could handle him easily, but Giotto wanted it understood the doctor had backup waiting nearby.

McCoy waited until Chapel and Giotto left before turning to Jasso. "All right, what is so important that you had to interrupt a patient exam?"

Jasso quivered as he pointed a finger at McCoy. "I had a report that you treated one of the flying creatures right here in the compound. Within the perimeter fence."

McCoy nodded. "Yes, I did."

"I thought I made it clear these beasts are a nuisance and a threat, not to be tolerated near our installations."

"What do you know about them?"

"What? What do you mean?"

"The birds, what do you know about them?" McCoy repeated. "Where do they live, how many are there? Has anyone here studied them?"

Jasso frowned at the unexpected tangent. "We are archeologists, not ornithologists. We're not running a zoo. I know nothing about those flying beasts except I want them far away before someone gets attacked." He sniffed angrily. "Imagine my dismay to find they are being encouraged to violate our area by a visiting Starfleet officer, someone who doesn't belong here in the first place and should know better."

McCoy shrugged. "I noticed one was hurt and did what I could. I'd even do it for you."

The affront was not subtle. Jasso stood as tall as he could, almost sneering as he looked at McCoy. "I am formulating a plan to keep those things away from our areas. Until then, I order you to stay away from them. In addition, I intend to file a complaint with your superior officer. Your insolence and disregard for the safety of this facility are appalling."

McCoy remained calm, but he also drew himself to his full height, forcing Jasso to look further up to meet his eyes.

"I am a Starfleet officer. One of our goals is to explore new life. But foremost, I am a physician. I took an oath. 'I will apply, for the benefit of the sick, all measurements which are required.' " He paused. "File whatever report you think is necessary. If that's all, my lunch is waiting."


	34. Chapter 34

Jasso was still fuming as he left McCoy and headed toward his office. He had wasted his time and effort trying to reason with the medic. The man was insufferable and seemed to have a single-minded fixation on the bird creatures. But he would not have pegged the doctor as a suicidal maniac until he overheard two of his staff talking about how McCoy had treated one of the ugly things right in the courtyard the evening before. In disbelief he had them repeat the tale to him.

Head down and intent on his anger, he almost plowed into Arnette in front of her office. He stopped abruptly, nearly losing his balance. Arnette backed up a step , he caught an irritated flash in her eyes before her face returned to her usual cool emotionless facade. She had reptilian eyes, he thought, not for the first time since she joined the group on Aminta. He was not sure who she was working for, but he was convinced she had been sent to spy and report on his activities and the overseeing of the project.

"Sorry," he mumbled in apology. "I was on my way to the office. I need to contact the Enterprise, and maybe Starfleet, too. We have a problem."

"Oh? What has happened?"

Jasso gave her a brief summary, watching her lips get thinner as he finished. She regarded him with her unreadable expression, then gestured toward her office.

"Could we speak in private before you make that call?"

Jasso hesitated, but followed her inside. She closed the door behind him and sat at her desk, offering him the other chair.

"Are you certain of your facts? What could have prompted him to interact with the creatures? It is difficult to believe he simply went strolling outside, happened to find a wounded bird, and decided to treat on the spur of the moment."

"Mallery and O'Casik saw it." Jasso pursed his lips in irritation. "McCoy has some sort of obsession with those things. He saw one when he first arrived, in fact the damn thing came right up to the window outside my office like it was greeting him. He's asking all sorts of questions about them. He's obviously an unbalanced fool. It's a wonder he didn't get killed."

"Yes." Arnette flicked an imaginary piece of dust from her desk surface, arranging her thoughts before pinning Jasso with her gelid eyes. "While I share your concern, perhaps it would be better not to contact Doctor McCoy's superiors in this matter."

"And why wouldn't you? This concerns the safety of our own people, here and perhaps at the other sites. Starfleet cannot come in and ride roughshod over this project."

Arnette's eyebrow rode upward. "Starfleet has power as the military arm of the Federation. They will probably get whatever they want. Right now they want their own researchers in the lab, even if they are so-called 'temporary'. The Enterprise is their flagship, the crew Starfleet's finest. McCoy may be difficult and perhaps unorthodox, but an unbalanced fool? I highly doubt that. It might not be wise to draw further attention to Aminta in light of the less than abundant production lately. It might lead to questions about the administration's ability to get results thus far or even the viability of the project at large."

Jasso felt cold. "What are you saying, Arnette? Speak plainly."

"Nothing that shouldn't already have occurred to you. The project is floundering, the useful output is almost nil at the moment. Academic publication is at a standstill. Morale is ebbing and researchers have grown weary of the impasse. That may be why Starfleet is here, to assess the situation for themselves. Where ever the problem may be, administration usually bears the brunt when the blame game is played." She paused, sitting straight in her chair. "The Enterprise is scheduled to leave in a few days. What difference is it in the end if McCoy wants to play with the birds while he is here? It does not seem like such a huge problem in the grand scheme of events. If I was in your position, I would not want extra scrutiny from Starfleet or the FSB. Do as you will."

Jasso got up looking rather pasty, his usual ruddiness faded to pale, and left without another word. She watched the door close behind him, knowing there would be no report.

Turning to her computer screen, she did a search and read the results for some time. Arnette cleared the screen and thought for a few minutes before making a call on her private, coded channel.

* * *

Excising a skin lesion and then a nasal polyp put McCoy and Chapel a little behind schedule. Uhura, T'Phol and Cassady were also working late in the linguistics lab. McCoy's group was first back to their quarters. He got coffee and went to his room to call in to the ship. During his routine check-in earlier, Kirk did not mention Jasso at all. McCoy wondered why he had failed to follow through on his threat. Jasso had certainly been adamant at the time, and he didn't seem the type to reconsider a position once taken.

He called to Sickbay first and talked to M'Benga, who sent the specimen's bio signature report to his medical tricorder. The science lab was still working with the defkato sample.

Then Kirk came on, and McCoy asked him outright if Jasso had contacted the ship.

"No. Why?" McCoy could hear the question in Kirk's voice.

"It seems he's not too happy about me treating the bird yesterday. I thought he might be in touch. In fact, he said he would."

Kirk's short silence sounded long suffering over the communicator. "He hasn't. Yet, anyway."

"I wonder why not."

"Don't sound disappointed. We have a few more days here. I'm sure you'll have plenty of time to stir up something."

McCoy chuckled. "You're probably right."

"That was not permission, Bones."

"I know. There is a possibility that some of our team will be visiting a working site tomorrow. Arnette is supposed to let Uhura know."

"Stay away from the magnesite areas."

"Will do, Sir." He heard the others arrive and signed off, taking his coffee to the living area.

T'Phol was placing the Moog on the counter. McCoy rocked on the balls of his feet, waiting hopefully for her report. She met his eyes, and he could tell there was no progress to relay. He suppressed a sigh.

"I guess there wasn't a major breakthrough today?" He could not keep the question in his voice from bleeding through.

'It takes time to establish linguistic ontology and taxonomy. We have made progress of a sort; we know some of what it's not. Data-base comparison search went on throughout the day."

"I thought you can see their singing as a pattern. That doesn't help?"

"Perhaps, with a big enough subset. At the moment, it is more like reconstructing Shakespeare's entire work knowing only the word 'the'."

Uhura joined them. "Maybe not even that," she said. "But we have eliminated some things. Its root is not related to any currently spoken Federation musical language. There are only a handful of those, and all but one are based on single notes. The Crayodites of the Gliesedian system have language using a harmonic scale, but their social structure and physiology are highly unusual. They exist in quad units, and each unit is responsible for relaying the individual message via its corresponding emotional conduit. One Crayodite is actually four beings operating as one whole while speaking four different dialects. Very interesting, but it still doesn't have any parallel in this case."

"What if you had more samples of our bird's singing? Would that help?"

"It certainly couldn't hurt," Uhura said. "The bigger the sample base, the more chances we would have of making the first connection."

"No!" Chapel walked up behind them. McCoy turned, startled by her sudden vehemence. "You can't be serious." She looked at Uhura and T'Phol. "I cannot believe you two are encouraging this- this obsessive interest." She wheeled around to face McCoy. "And you? You're not telling us everything. You made it out alive, perhaps barely, once. What happens if it gets mad again? Suppose it doesn't back down next time? We'll return to the Enterprise minus one chief surgeon, that's what. All so useless and avoidable." She glanced at the others and lowered her voice a bit, her anger subsiding. "I'll bet you didn't tell them about your little visit from Jasso, either."

McCoy's voice was calm and quiet as he replied. "No. There's nothing to tell. Jasso did not make a report after all. And it doesn't matter if he does. I've faced far worse than him."

"Perhaps you have. I guess it doesn't matter that he's right. You have a mission and you won't be dissuaded. I never thought you had a death wish, Doctor. Until now. Excuse me." Chapel went to her room, closing the door firmly.

Giotto and Cassady stood silently ill-at-ease across the room. T'Phol said nothing. Uhura reached out and touched McCoy's arm. "You should go after her, Len. She's really upset."

McCoy rubbed his hand across his jaw. "I'll talk to her in a few minutes." He showered, changing into casual clothes, then got a hot tea before knocking on her door. He thought she wasn't going to answer, but after a minute the door opened half way and she stood staring at him. He extended his hand with the tea. She moved aside.

"I guess you want to come in."

"Yes, if I may."

She took the tea and sat on her bunk, watching him warily. He sat in the desk chair with some caution of his own.

Chapel took a sip of her tea, her eyes still on him. He waited.

"I am not going to apologize," she said after a few sips.

"I don't expect you to apologize for worrying about me. For caring."

"Why are you doing this, Leonard? I was worried because I knew you were struggling with a bout of depression. Then T'Phol came aboard...I thought you were turning around. Now you seem bent on destruction. I cannot stop wondering if your depression is much worse than I thought initially."

McCoy leaned forward, within reach but staying outside of her personal space, a zone that was always wide and at the moment, even broader than usual. "No," he said. "This is not a self-destructive tendency brought on by depression." He paused, meeting her eyes evenly. "You know I have bad patches. You have your ear to the ground always. So you also know I get help when I need it, right?"

Chapel nodded. "I know you have before. But I've never seen you like this. So suddenly fixated, so anxious. Something is going on here, with you. You and that bird. I sound like a holovid on repeat, but I'm afraid."

"I know." Her eyes were shiny. He knew Chapel hated seeming vulnerable. He looked away for a moment, giving her time to regroup. "Why does Piasa strike such fear with you?"

"I'm not simply scared of him because he's huge and obviously could be lethal if he attacked. That fear is easily controlled by staying away." Her eyes flashed. "Which you obviously don't intend to do. It's your obsession with them that frightens me. You're usually vigilant in every part of your life. But here you are acting totally out of character, a sudden new relationship, a sudden compulsion to interact with dangerous creatures, and you're hiding something big, something important. I'm afraid this secret could put us all in danger. Have you thought about that? But it's you I really fear for. Somehow you feel linked to whatever is happening, obligated to these creatures we do not even begin to understand. You don't _know_ they're sentient. Even if they are, what if they're not benevolent. They could have an agenda of their own, of which you're unaware. They could use you, maybe against your own people."

"We are not in danger from Piasa or the birds, you can take my word on that. There may be other dangers here, but I don't know what or how."

Chapel closed her eyes. "I knew you wouldn't listen."

"Do you want to go back to the Enterprise?" McCoy asked gently.

Her eyes flew open. "Of course not. Do _you_ want to _send_ me back?"

"No," he answered. "I need you here, not just as my top nurse, but as a counterpoint to my 'obsession'. I thought I'd offer you an out if you wanted one."

"It's not an out I want."

"I know. I can't promise to stay away from the birds. I will try to be discreet and avoid confrontations with the administration here." He paused, making sure he had eye contact before continuing. "You mentioned my new relationship, which has nothing to do with the birds. Do you have a problem with that, too?"

"What?" Chapel looked genuinely confused. "No, why would I? T'Phol is a lovely girl, very fond of you, and God knows you deserve a little happiness. Noting that a certain behavior is out of character is not the same thing as disapproval, Leonard. I do disapprove of your relationship with the birds, but your personal life is your business, and you've always kept it close. If it matters, I think it's sweet that you are having a romance. You seem good for each other. You sang for her."

McCoy relaxed. While he didn't need anyone's approval, he would be lying to himself to say he didn't care what his friends thought. Certainly he did not need a further wedge between him and his chief nurse. "Thank you," he said. "It does matter."

Chapel's face softened almost into a smile. "I am not against you, please believe me. I'll help any way I can. But I cannot and will not be your yes man. You have the others for that." She sighed heavily. "Maybe I'm not cut out for landing party duty. I don't go on missions often. I guess there's a reason for that."

"Right now there's no one I'd rather have. Keep that honesty, I need it. Just don't forget that I am following my own conscious, too."

"You always do." She patted his hand, and it seemed they were repaired at least for a time.


	35. Chapter 35

T'Phol was the only one waiting in the living area when McCoy left Chapel's room. He joined her on the couch, sinking down beside her and stretching his legs. She pulled him against her for a kiss, which he returned with a quick eagerness before breaking away with a wry smile.

She sat back. "I know, command decorum. How is Nurse Chapel?"

"We're all right, I think. Patched if not healed. Where is everyone?"

"They are in their rooms."

McCoy sighed and got up, going to the big window and looking out. After a moment, T'Phol joined him, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind. The day had remained heavily overcast and dark, although currently no drizzle was falling. The view was cold and grey. The doctor's human heat felt good, and she rested her chin on his shoulder. He tilted his head toward her with a backward glance.

"This feels like Thanksgiving," he said quietly.

"Yes?" T'Phol tightened her arms around him, waiting for him to share his thoughts.

"Late November is often cool and rainy in Georgia. I remember lots of Thanksgivings with weather just like this, maybe not as cold."

When he didn't continue, T'Phol prompted. "This gloom puts you in a holiday spirit?"

He smiled and turned to face her. "Sounds strange, doesn't it?" He wound a stray lock of her hair around his finger, watching it spring into a curl as he released it, his thoughts far away.

T'Phol studied his face for a moment. "How do you plan on looking for them?"

He didn't pretend not to understand, and in a mark of their newly close relationship, he didn't wonder how she knew what he was thinking.

"I am modifying my medical tricorder to scan for their signature."

"When? This evening?"

"Maybe now, before dark. Just near the compound. No farther than I can walk. Do you want to go?"

"Yes," she said instantly. "Only us?"

"I think so. It shouldn't be dangerous." He looked at her with a little smirk. "If we don't see Piasa, we can always use the opportunity to neck." He grinned as a flush spread over T'Phol's cheeks. "I'll have to let at least Giotto know we're stepping out. Wrap up good. I'll grab my things and jab some tri-ox."

McCoy pulled up a site map on the computer and studied it a minute before injecting himself with tri-ox compound. He grabbed his medical kit, tricorder, and coat before knocking on Giotto's door. It was standing part way open and Giotto looked up, motioning him to enter. He had a PADD and stylus on his desk.

"Are you going somewhere?" He immediately put down the tablet and reached for his coat.

"Hang on, Barry. I just want to look around the compound. I won't go beyond hollerin' distance from the fence. T'Phol is coming with me. We're just takin' a little walk."

Giotto sat unhappily, searching McCoy's face with a shrewdness born from experience. "Are you taking a romantic stroll or bird watching ?"

McCoy blushed. "Maybe both," he admitted.

Giotto sighed. "Then take my phaser one. Just in case. There are other predators here besides the birds." He handed it to McCoy who slipped it in his coat pocket.

"How long do you plan to be outside?"

"Not too long. We'll come back in before dark."

Giotto glanced at the clock. "That's well over an Aminta hour." He frowned. "If you're not back a few minutes before dark, I _will_ come out searching for you."

"Fair enough." McCoy turned toward the door.

"Doc, be careful. The captain will shoot me if I let anything happen to you."

McCoy scowled. "I am a grown man, and Jim is an overprotective ass sometimes. Don't worry, I'll be careful."

* * *

T'Phol was waiting at the doors. They stepped out into damp cold. McCoy took her hand as they crossed the yard, their steps crunching on the brittle ground..

The perimeter fence surrounded the compound and had gates at the front and back. The gates were fastened but not locked. They slipped through and were outside the wall. McCoy did a sweep with his tricorder. The readings indicated a few small mammals in the grass about four hundred yards to the south. He guessed those were the smaller variety of Amintian deer. Beyond the grass was a thick stand of evergreens, curving around to the north, meeting the road in front of the buildings. In the east more trees stood, their bare branches in sharp relief against the soft, dull grey sky. He looked at them a long minute. T'Phol's fingers tightened around his.

"Those are the trees in your dream?"

He nodded. "Of course, they would be in the east," he muttered. "Like going to Mordor. With- what did Chekov call 'em, quasi-deciduous?- trees. That's the way we need to go."

McCoy's trepidation grew as they approached the woods. They paused at the edge. He halfway expected to see a luminous path, but there was none, glowing or dark. The forest floor had a dark covering of past leaves and very little underbrush. Here and there a spriggish, leggy succulent twined around a grey trunk in an undulant merging.

He told himself his accelerated heartbeat was from the tri-ox. "Let's go." Still holding hands, they slipped into the shadow of the trees.

It was slightly above freezing. Occasionally a drop fell, its plop magnified in the quiet, still air. They walked a few hundred yards into the woods, the leaves muffling the sound of their passage.

McCoy stopped, looking around as he took an opportunity to catch some breaths.

"This is a pretty piece of forest," he said, marveling that he could think so after dreaming about them twice. "And it doesn't stink." He drew a deep breath. "Just smells leafy, not moldy and dank."

"Like Georgia?"

He huffed. "I don't think we're in Georgia any more, Dorothy Gale."

"Have you switched books? I thought we were in Middle Earth."

He pulled her close and they kissed, but he broke away after a moment, his senses alert.

"Evidently neither Middle Earth nor Oz are conducive for romantic activity," T'Phol said.

"No," McCoy almost whispered. "'Listen." He took up the tricorder, making a sweeping scan, looking at the readings. "Stay still. A bird is coming."

There was a small clearing about forty feet in front of them. In less than a minute a grey shape landed, teetering on an upper limb, then dropped to the ground.

"It's Piasa," McCoy said quietly. "He's alone." He handed her his communicator. "Stay here." He took a step forward. Piasa tilted his head, humming, his pupil constricting. McCoy stopped.

"Good afternoon, Piasa."

Piasa shuffled about halfway to McCoy, then halted. He hummed a couple of lines from Blackbird, and lowered his head. When he looked up, his gaze was on T'Phol.

McCoy took a few steps toward him, finishing the verse, then bowed his head, mirroring Piasa's action. He looked up and pointed. "This is T'Phol. She is our friend."

Piasa warbled, his pupil fluctuating and he came the rest of the way to McCoy, who reached out and stroked his neck. Piasa chimed and trilled, then looked at T'Phol again.

"Would you like to meet her? Yes?" He spoke to T'Phol softly, his eyes never leaving Piasa. "T'Phol, move toward us slowly, hold your hands free. If he objects, stop and hold still."

Piasa watched her intently, trilling very softly as she approached. She stopped just behind McCoy. Piasa stood tall, falling silent for a minute. His head moved closer to her, tilting to inspect her with his amazing eye.

"Hello, Piasa."

He hummed another piece of the Blackbird song. T'Phol responded by singing a scale as do-re-mi. For a moment Piasa was quiet, then he sang it back to her in the same key. She changed keys and repeated. So did Piasa. She sang scales a total of six times, in six different keys, all in perfect pitch, and he repeated them back to her, each perfect.

McCoy looked on, amazed.

T'Phol reached out tentatively, but stopped short before actually touching him. "Now it is your turn. You sing to me."

Piasa's shining eyes fluctuated, then he sang.

It was haunting and melodic, and it obviously was telling a story. He sang for a long while, beautiful alien words telling a tale they couldn't understand. He finished and was silent and still.

T'Phol spoke first. "Thank you, Piasa," She looked at McCoy. His face was wet with tears. Piasa moved to him, trilling gently. He touched his beak to McCoy's chest, then looked him in the eye, their faces inches apart. McCoy stroked the soft scales on his chest, running his fingers next to the hot skin. Piasa chimed, allowing the contact for several minutes. McCoy straightened, letting go, rubbing the wet from his face.

"Piasa, tell the Tribe to stay away from the compound. They're afraid of you there. We are trying to translate your language."

Piasa regarded him, eyes turning between red and gold. He warbled a bit, finally humming a bit of Blackbird, as if he was using it as both a greeting and a farewell. He took low to the air and was out of sight through the trees.

The communicator T'Phol was holding chirped. Wordlessly she handed it to McCoy. He turned off the tricorder before answering.

"McCoy here." His voice sounded rough and hoarse.

"Giotto, Sir." A pause. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, we're fine."

"You'll be in before dark?"

"Yes. We'll be on the way back shortly. How long until night?"

"Less than twenty more minutes of daylight."

"We'll be there. McCoy out."

He pocketed the communicator and looked at T'Phol.

"I have no words for what just happened," she said. "Are you all right?

He nodded, pulling her against him, leaning into her solid form. She held him until he moved away, taking her hand. "I guess we'd better head back before Barry sends out a search party."

They retraced their path through the woods until they stood once again at the edge outside the perimeter fence. The temperature had grown noticeably colder as the grey light faded from the sky. They both pulled their jacket hoods close as they crunched across the field, entering the gate just as the compound lights came on.

T'Phol stopped before entering the doors. "Do you think Piasa understood?"

"I hope so."

"A question before we go inside, and I expect the entire truth. Did you already know he was coming to you?"

McCoy pulled the hood away from his face. "I did not _know_ he would come. I thought he might. I didn't know when or where."

She nodded, satisfied. "One more thing."

"Yes?"

"Kiss me again."

He obliged.

* * *

Giotto met them as they entered, obviously relieved. McCoy fished the phaser from his pocket and returned it, went to the bathroom, then to his room to hang his coat. The others were sitting in the living area, Chapel and Cassady were playing a card game, Uhura was working on her PADD. Everyone looked up as he entered.

"Have y'all had supper?"

"Snacks," Cassady answered. "We were waiting for you and T'Phol. I'm starving."

T'Phol came out of her room, slipping on her heavy sweater. "I am hungry as well, Cass."

"I don't see how either of you stay so thin," Uhura said.

"You didn't have to wait, but thanks. Let's go," McCoy said, slinging the tricorder around his shoulder. Uhura and Chapel both noticed, but made no comment as they walked the long hall to the galley and commons.

McCoy got a sandwich and soup, noting that everyone chose more food than the previous evening. They were well into their meal when he heard the familiar staccato heels clicking on the stone floor. He stood and greeted her like the Southern gentleman his Grandma raised.

Arnette nodded curtly and addressed Uhura. "There will be an opportunity for you and your colleagues to visit one of the working sites tomorrow. A team will leave here returning to Site Three to switch personnel and take supplies. You may accompany them if you feel up to it. You will be back at the compound before nightfall."

Uhura and T'Phol both were obviously keen on the idea. McCoy frowned.

"Site Three is not in a magnesite area?"

"No. And they may use the oxygen-enriched crawler."

"I'd need to send security along, and probably Nurse Chapel as well."

"Certainly." Arnette's cool gaze rested on McCoy for a moment. "Your team should be ready shortly after daybreak, around zero-four. I shall send the particulars to the computer in your area. Good night."

Uhura waited until Arnette was out of earshot. "Well, that's a surprise."

"I wonder what changed her mind? That's a complete about-face from this morning." He glanced around the table. "I suppose you all want to go? You'll take Barry with you. And Christine, too."

"But that will leave you here alone," Chapel protested.

"I have those physicals to complete. They'll need you with the kit full of tri-ox. I'll be fine."

They finished eating and returned to their rooms. Chapel and Cassady resumed their interrupted card game while Giotto put a video in the comm unit and started a movie. McCoy handed his tricorder to T'Phol. She opened the Moog, connected them and began the transfer. Uhura came over, propping her arms on the stone counter as she watched. When the download was complete, T'Phol disconnected the tricorder and handed it to McCoy, who gave it to Uhura. She took it with a raised brow.

"Should I assume there's something new here?"

McCoy nodded to T'Phol. Her fingers played across the Moog buttons and her clear voice sang the first scale. Piasa answered, his layered woodwind vocalization deep and enticing. They continued to sing scales. Across the room, the card game halted, Giotto paused the video, and everyone gathered near as Piasa began his song. They were held enthralled for the entire twenty minutes Piasa sang. The Moog went silent as the song concluded. McCoy looked at each of them, holding Chapel's gaze a beat longer, willing her to understand there was more to the song than random pretty sounds, that Piasa was sharing a story with them.

Uhura spoke first. "I think this removes any question of whether his song is language."

McCoy closed his eyes briefly, relieved that Uhura agreed.

"Is it enough?"

"That will take some time to tell."

McCoy slumped a little. Time was a thing they had in limited supply. "Can you send the recording to the Enterprise?" He handed her his communicator. She sent the transmission, then sat to watch the video of the encounter.

"Hey, T'Phol. Could you translate his song to piano or violin? Is it too alien, or are musical keys constant throughout the galaxy? "

T'Phol looked at Cassady, surprised. The question was thoughtful, and she had already considered doing just that.

"I could transpose it for either. At its heart, music is a series of simple integer ratios; the physics involved in the relationship between components of the sound wave is constant. It does not change because the instrument changes. A key of F-sharp remains F-sharp, whether on Earth or Aminta, violin or piano or vocal cord. Piasa's song would lend itself handily to a woodwind ensemble, particularly clarinet, oboe, and bagpipe."

"You said yesterday you wanted to hear their original compositions," Chapel said to T'Phol. "Isn't it fortunate the bird happened along just as you two were taking a walk?" She looked at McCoy. "I'm going to bed. Do you want to scan me first?"

McCoy reached for his kit without a word. He passed the scanner over her, looking at the readings. "Everything appears fine. Headache?"

"No. Goodnight, then."

McCoy watched her go to her room, seeing her anger betrayed by her stilted posture. Evidently they were not as patched as he had believed.

Uhura looked up from the tricorder, frowning, her eyes following Chapel as she left. "I have some things to say. First, this is an incredible encounter. His song is exquisite." She looked at T'Phol. "You sang beautifully, too."

"I do not sing. I have absolute pitch, the ability to recognize or recreate any musical note without a reference tone. It is a handy skill, but solfeggio is not the same thing as singing. Absolute pitch is almost certainly closely related to my projective synesthesia."

"Were you able to envision patterns while he was singing?"

"Yes, to a small extent, they were not elucidate."

Uhura turned to McCoy. "Christine is right. This meeting was no accident. Piasa knew you were out there and where to find you. Did _you_ know where to find _him_?"

"T'Phol asked me the same thing. No, but I had a feeling he might come. I didn't know for sure."

Uhura tapped her finger against the tricorder. "Did Piasa tell you where to meet?"

"No."

"But you had a 'feeling'." It must have occurred to you that Piasa is sending those feelings telepathically. T'Phol, did you sense any attempt to communicate with you while you were out there?"

"Beyond the song itself? No." T'Phol lowered her eyes.

"So, Doctor, it seems Piasa speaks only to you. And you don't want to talk about it. Or maybe you can't. Maybe Piasa doesn't want you to talk about it."

McCoy's anger flared, hot and incommensurate. He looked across her shoulder. Giotto was seated at the video screen, but looking down, his gaze averted as if he was trying not to listen. Cassady was staring with wide eyes. Chapel was in her room, still perturbed with him. Uhura's expression was Vulcan-like and unreadable. He looked at T'Phol. There was no coercion in her eyes, just quiet acceptance. He drank in the strength and calmness there, and turned away. To give himself some time to collect, he went to the synthesizor and got a glass of water, sipping until he felt able to contain his irateness. He turned to Uhura, fighting to keep his tone calm and quiet.

"This distrust is wearin' on me. From Chapel, from you. I have _never_ been a liar."

Uhura sighed. "No one is accusing you of lying." Uhura paused, gauging how much she could push. "What are you not telling us, Len?"

McCoy pinched the bridge of his nose. Discord and suspicion were making him miserable, and he could feel a blinding headache waiting to blossom into full reality. He wanted to cry or scream. He wanted to be anywhere but in that chilly room, struggling to explain things he didn't understand to people who didn't believe him. He imagined himself sitting on the front porch, swinging in the gentle, warm evening, sweet iced tea in hand, the scent of gardenia drifting past, listening to crickets chirp and watching fireflies in the yard. When he spoke his words were soft with Georgia bleeding through.

"I've already told you what I can. Piasa does not speak to me using words. I talk to him that way, 'cause it's the only way I know. Maybe he is communicatin' with me, but it's subtle and I can't detect it. I can't point to anything inside my head and say, 'Oh look, Piasa wants me to meet him in the woods at six o'clock.' " He ran a hand through his hair. "He does seem to understand what I say to him. I'm certain he's not controllin' my mind, though. I'm still myself, and I think I've been compromised in that way often enough to recognize it. I don't know how many times I can tell you. Or how many times you can refuse to believe me." He fell silent, looking away to hide his pain.

Uhura got up, walked around the edge of the counter and stood inches away, glaring up at him. "Listen to me, Leonard McCoy. I do not question your honesty." Her voice, although pitched low, contained a quiet fierceness that would not be rebuffed. She grasped his face in both her hands, forcing him to look at her. "But something is going on here, something we don't understand. And according to what you just said, _you_ don't understand it, either. Piasa may be totally benign. Maybe he views you as a kind Human or an exceptional healer, which you are both, and simply wants to be friends. He may be planning total galactic domination with you as his pawn. He may be premiering a new song on a test audience. Maybe he likes The Beatles. Whatever he is doing, he has established a form of communication with you, and only you, and evidently this communication is some sort of one-sided telepathy. I find that disturbing and a little frightening. I'm trying to find answers, but there are too many puzzle pieces missing. It's difficult not to think you have at least a couple of those pieces in your pocket, whether you think so or not." She released him, her movement and tone becoming softer. "You are dear to me, Len. We're getting so close to the end of this five year mission. We can't stumble now."

She reached out to him in a hug, which he returned. "This is turning out to be one hell of a milk run," he said, pressing a quick kiss to top of her head. "I'm sorry if you are worrying about me, but this is so important..." He trailed off, weary of trying to defend his involvement with Piasa, knowing he had to continue.

Uhura gave him a final pat and let go. "I'm not trying to add to your stress, but it is possible we will have to leave Aminta before we make a breakthrough on translation."

McCoy nodded. "I'll continue to advocate for them in absentia."

"A force to be reckoned with." She picked up his tricorder and handed it to him. "If we are leaving shortly after daybreak, I need to get to bed. I hope you sleep well. All this will be all right. It has to be. Good night, all."

Cassady also bade them good evening and went to his room. McCoy picked up his scanner. "Before you go, I want to check you, Barry." Giotto walked over, submitting to the quick pass. ""Looking good," McCoy said. "You should do fine tomorrow with the tri-ox and tazocap."

Giotto nodded. "Thanks. May I speak freely?"

"You might as well, everyone else has. If it's about the birds, just remember I'm armed with hypos and I know how to use 'em."

"No, I'm not too worried about Piasa. If he wanted to kill you he easily could, and he's had every opportunity to do so, twice now. I think he communicates with you because he knows you care." He shrugged. "That's not dangerous in itself just because we don't understand it. And I don't see how it could be a prelude to galactic domination. So I will trust your assessment of the situation unless I see contrary evidence."

McCoy released a breath, gratified for Giotto's support. "Thank you, Barry."

"They don't mean to gang up on you, Doc," Giotto said quietly. "Nurse Chapel is afraid of the birds and the other predators, the hyenas." He huffed. "She gave me hell for letting you go outside."

McCoy would have laughed, but humor seemed currently incongruous where his head nurse was concerned.

"What I wanted to discuss is your plan for tomorrow. I am not comfortable with splitting the landing party and leaving you here alone."

"I have physicals to finish. The others all want to go. Chapel will need to go as the medic." He looked sharply at the security chief, trusting Giotto's instinct. "What makes you uncomfortable, exactly?"

"This entire planet buzzes my nerves. I don't care for Jasso or Arnette. It's nothing specific. Some places just feel- toxic."

"We're in total agreement there." McCoy sighed. "I promise I'll lay low tomorrow and try to keep out of trouble."

"You'll stay inside?"

"Yes. And you check in with the Enterprise every hour."

"Understood." He inclined his head in a slight bow. "Good night, Doc, Miss Grayson."

"I am going to change," T'Phol said, after Giotto's door closed. "Then you and I must talk."

"Et tu, Brute?"

T'Phol shook her head. "I shall return shortly."

She came out in pajamas and carrying a blanket. They sat on the couch together and she began massaging his neck, her strong fingers kneading and smoothing. "Your neck feels like knotted rope."

"They don't believe me." His voice sounded thin, defeated.

"They have reason for their misgivings, their concerns are not unfounded." She felt him immediately tense and dug into his muscles with more vigor, leaning closer. "Shhhh," she soothed. "Be still a minute. You will get a headache."

"Too late," he rumbled. "I already have one."

T'Phol made a small, noncommittal sound and continued her effort for a few minutes, finally feeling him begin to lean into her hands. She shifted closer, began following her fingers with her lips, moving over his neck and across his jaw, finally covering his mouth with hers. He gave in with a small groan and they kissed with growing hunger. She undid the button at the top of his shirt and he pulled back enough to see her eyes. The longing he saw there mirrored his own. He ducked his face, feeling raw and needing to hide.

"I thought you wanted to talk," he murmured into her neck.

"We are talking." She nuzzled into his shoulder, sliding a hand underneath his shirt.

He managed to get to his feet, pulling her up with him. "We're gonna have to continue this conversation in private."

"Command decorum?"

"We'll worry about that later."

* * *

McCoy adjusted the pillow under their heads, pulling the blankets around the two of them. They lay entwined without speaking for a few minutes. T'Phol stroked his temple as she held him close. "How is your headache?"

He tucked his arm around her tighter. "Somehow I forgot about it."

"Good. Because now we really do need to talk."

"About this afternoon?"

"Yes. I have been thinking about what happened. Uhura questioned if Piasa tried to communicate with me. I told her no, and he did not. I tried to communicate with him, first by singing scales, but I also attempted to establish a Tap. I was not successful, perhaps because he is a species with which I am inexperienced, or maybe it is beyond my capability to initiate a 'reverse' Tap, for lack of a better definition. Uhura also asked if I could see the pattern within Piasa's song. I could not, beyond the most basic of fabric, because Piasa was blocking me."

" _Blocking_ you?"

"I sent an inquiring tendril but could sense nothing of his mind." She thought for a minute. "It was like tossing a glass of water at a wall. He is heavily shielded. I do not think it was deliberate on his part to hide anything from me in particular. It simply exists. It is part of him like your aura surrounds you or my Rage is in me." She smoothed the little line that appeared on his forehead.

"Then how can I tell what he's thinking?"

T'Phol raised a brow. "If you are indeed understanding his thoughts, it can only be because he is facilitating the process. Or he is sending what he _wants_ you to believe. After meeting him, I have no doubt that he understands what we are saying. Both he and Little Birdie comprehended your treatment yesterday and cooperated with every request. Today I asked him to sing and he did. Since he has probably not studied a standard dictionary, he must be receiving his translation directly from our thoughts. It was no coincidence that we met him in the woods today. He could have sent you the message to meet, or he sensed that you were outside and came to you. Either way, he has access to you, maybe to us all. His robust shielding suggests a telepath of substantial ability resides behind."

"You didn't feel any communication from him at all?"

"No. It seems you are the chosen one." T'Phol hesitated. "You were impacted emotionally by his song. Can you tell me what you were sensing?"

McCoy propped on an elbow, his eyes focused on her, intense. "First tell me, do _you_ think Piasa is dangerous?" He looked briefly away, then back. "Could he be controlling my mind without me being aware?"

T'Phol gently smoothed his lock of hair that always beckoned for her touch, wanting to ease his inner turmoil, feeling certain she would add to his disquiet instead. She turned over phrasing in her mind before opting for direct and simple.

"Yes. It seems to me both are possible."

Some strong emotion flickered over his face, quickly gone. He closed his eyes. When he looked at her again, they were soft and deep, with a sort of lament that both frightened her and made her want to lose herself there. She unconsciously tightened her arms around him. He stroked her cheek with his thumb, winding a wisp of her hair into a curl before he spoke.

"Piasa's song was about me." He released the little curl, watching as it sprung into a coil. T'Phol heard the resignation in his voice, and felt apprehension washing over her like a cold wave. She held her breath, waiting for him to finish, but not wanting to hear.

"It was written two thousand years ago."


	36. Chapter 36

T'Phol stayed with McCoy most of the night, initially pressing him for details following his revelation. He insisted his interpretation was correct, although he could not explain how he knew, and could not tell her any details of the song itself beyond knowing it was ancient and about him. He could not recall any instant where he realized Piasa was in his mind presenting that information. She eventually relented, realizing his inability to articulate the details was real, and the vagueness surrounding Piasa's communication was as distressing for him as it was the others.

After that, they were quiet. T'Phol held him, sometimes smoothing his face or gently kneading his neck or shoulders. She sensed a great deal of anxiety at the forefront of his always active emotional psyche, coupled with frustration and urgency. She cleared her mind, trying to project a sense of calmness although she did not feel tranquil herself. Finally he slipped into an uneasy doze and her thoughts returned to Piasa.

She did not sing to Piasa to test his pitch or mimicry. Of course he had no problem in repeating the scales. He had already shown that ability in a more complicated form the previous day. She wondered if he would respond to someone other than McCoy. She was surprised when her inquiry tendril was turned aside, neatly, thoroughly, and without visible effort on his part. She was unsure if he had noticed her attempt, but he had moved very near her, pinning her with his red and gold gaze. It was difficult not to believe he was processing a lot of information during that intense regard. Those eyes gleamed with intelligence and consideration. She started to touch him, but could not bring herself to reach those final inches and make contact. She knew a combination of things stopped her. His majestic, aloof bearing was undeniable. She did not want to encroach upon his personal space, although he did not seem to mind Leonard touching him, and in fact had initiated contact.

Other reasons were both simpler and more complex. She closed her eyes as her musing involuntarily turned to introspection.

T'Phol had always been naturally reserved, automatically refraining from unnecessary physical contact with others. Her childhood years of being both isolated and on display had intensified her shyness and reluctance to engage. When she returned to Vulcan permanently, that innate tendency was magnified through training and reinforced by culture. Unlike Spock, she was not a strong touch telepath, indeed she had never initiated a meld on her own. Like her father, her telepathic ability manifested in a different direction. After discovering the Tap, she found she could also sense zherka tam'a, the emotional living essence. That was an unwelcome development, and she spent her hiatus years on Vulcan learning to harness the Tap and block and assuage the effect of the other.

When she felt ready to resume her career, she knew she would have to enter the new phase as an adult, able to handle her own affairs. She sought additional help, immersing herself into a different type of Human therapy designed to alleviate her social anxiety and allow her to function outside her grandparents' protected compound.

Over the years, what had once seemed insurmountable obstacles became common place. She employed an agent, but she was capable of negotiating her own contracts and making performance arrangements. She could look others in the eye, engage in small talk following concerts, and exchange niceties with strangers. She no longer flinched from unsolicited or accidental touches.

Aside from her grandparents and the contacts made necessary by her career, she lived a largely solitary life, both on Vulcan and Earth, feeling no real need to seek companionship, platonic or romantic. As a young, unbonded female from one of Vulcan's oldest , most prestigious and powerful clans, she was under considerable pressure to consider taking a bondmate. At Matriarch T'Pau's behest, she reluctantly met a few potential suitors, all of whom she quickly rejected. She also tried a few dates on her own, those primarily occurring while she was on Earth and away from T'Pau's critical oversight. One of those independent ventures had resulted in a short -lived sexual relationship. Although unsatisfying, it was also liberating, proving such intimate contact was possible. Even so, she had not been drawn to try again.

Until Leonard. His zherka tam'a called to her from the beginning. His expressive, warm humanity, mingled with brilliant intelligence, passion, and a turbulent mix of emotion just underneath the surface, was at once comforting and unsettling. That dichotomy was a siren call she was unable to resist, a specific and unequivocal peril unwittingly aimed at her. Eros's arrow, she thought wryly, filled with southern charm, but loaded with the potential to strew desolation in its wake. She had willingly stepped into its path, indeed, she had forged the way, deeming the reward was worth the risk. He was the first person she had ever wanted to hold, his the only touch she invited and welcomed without reservation.

She did not welcome the touch from a formidable telepath. She hoped it would not become necessary to attempt such a contact.

T'Phol opened her eyes to find him awake, quietly watching her.

"I'd offer you a penny for your thoughts," he said softly, "but I'm not sure I want to know." He traced her jawline with his thumb. "You looked pensive, deep."

"I did not mean to worry you. I was thinking about the past, and my life on Vulcan." She sighed. "And Piasa."

"Any fresh insight?"

"About Piasa? No."

McCoy's lips curved in a smile. "I won't ask you about the other."

T'Phol reached for his hand, pressing it against her cheek. She searched his face, uncertain what either of them needed to say or hear. They lay in silence for another minute before McCoy sat up, reaching for his t-shirt and pants. T'Phol watched as he pulled on his clothes and went to the window, looking out into the darkness. She slipped from under the covers and into her pajamas, joining him at the window. Outside it was quiet, the compound lights forming circles of illumination on the ground and walls. Nothing moved within those spheres. McCoy stared unseeing into the darkness. He didn't respond when she laid her hand on his arm. She could sense his growing desperation amid the whirl of emotion, and underneath that, firm resolve. She whispered his name and he turned to her, burying his face in her hair. He somehow felt fragile, she held him carefully, mindful of his thinness. She was reluctant to let go when he finally straightened and pulled back. She leaned down for a kiss before dropping her hands from his arms and releasing him.

"I'll go now," she said. "Command decorum will be preserved."

She hoped to provoke a chuckle from him, but he simply nodded, casting a glance toward the window.. T'Phol's eyes followed his, but the view remained empty.

"Is Piasa coming tonight?"

McCoy's eyes flashed with momentary heat, swiftly quelled. He shrugged. "I don't know. I don't think so." He turned to look at her with a hint of wariness she had not seen directed at her before. "I really don't know," he repeated.

"I believe you." She paused. "Tomorrow, will you promise to stay inside, at least until we return?"

"I already told Giotto that I would."

"Tell me. I need to hear it directly from you."

He stepped close again, looking up into her eyes. "I will not go out looking for Piasa tomorrow. I'll finish the physicals and paperwork, and go take a nap." He tilted his head. "Satisfied?"

"Yes. Thank you. Do not be angry."

McCoy sighed. "I am not angry. I do get tired of feeling overprotected. Chapel does it, Jim. Even Spock. I'm a grown man, I don't have to be mollycoddled."

"They understand the quality of the spirit residing within you. Their care is justified and understandable."

McCoy shook his head. "I don't know about all that. But you have my word. And I'll seal it with a kiss." He leaned up so their lips met.

They parted and T'Phol left, closing the door silently behind her. A small movement caught her eye. Chapel was curled in a chair with her blanket and a cup. T'Phol paused and she waved her over. She approached and took a seat on the edge of a chair. Chapel's demeanor seemed a little cool, but not unfriendly. She took a sip of her tea before speaking.

"I see I'm not the only one who couldn't sleep."

T'Phol looked down. "I suppose not."

Chapel regarded her steadily. "Is he all right?"

T'Phol hesitated a moment. "I do not know," she finally admitted.

"Thank you for the truth. I know they say Vulcans can't lie..." She stirred her tea, leaning forward. "I am worried about him. He resents it."

"I do not believe he resents your concern."

"He thinks I'm prying."

"He thinks you do not believe him."

Chapel smiled grimly. "I don't." She waved her hand at T'Phol's protest. "Oh, I know he's telling some of the story. I am not saying he's lying." She looked at T'Phol speculatively, as if gauging how much she would listen. "I've worked closely with him for almost five years. I know him," she continued. "I don't know what he's told you in addition to what he's told us all, if anything. I _know_ he's hiding something. Maybe it's nothing important. Probably it is. It wouldn't surprise me if he thinks he's protecting us or himself by keeping silent. I am loath to leave him tomorrow. He'll be out looking for Piasa as soon as we're out of sight."

"He has assured both Chief Giotto and myself he will stay in tomorrow, at least until our return."

"Oh?" Chapel looked surprised. "You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that. If he said he'll stay in, then he will. He is a man of his word."

T'Phol nodded. "Yes. Is that all?" She rose from her seat, uneasy with the conversation. Chapel stood as well, not as tall as the Vulcan, but statuesque in her Human way. The two locked gazes for a bit, not in hostility, it was more of a measurement taking. T'Phol was not sure where she fell on Chapel's scale, but the nurse's stance softened.

"I know we both care about him," Chapel said softly. I want to make sure _you_ realize that, too. I am not your enemy, nor am I his."

"Of course. This is difficult for him, but I am sure he has not forgotten where loyalty lies. Good night."

"Good morning is more like it."

T'Phol nodded and went to her room, closing her door. Chapel finished her tea and went to look out the window. Outside looked cold and uninviting as she imagined Amintian creatures waiting with their strange eyes and unknown motivations. She lost track of how long she stood staring into the dark when she heard someone softly approach, Without turning she knew it was McCoy. He stood beside her without speaking as they both looked into the empty night. After a moment, she turned to face him.

"T'Phol told me you promised to stay in tomorrow while we're gone."

"That's right." He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms in a posture Chapel always thought of as his defensive slouch.

"That helps me feel better about leaving you alone."

"I'm not a child," he said, bleakness robbing his tone of the snap he intended.

"I know."

"I can't give up on Piasa."

Chapel sighed. "I know that, too."

He looked down. "When our time on Aminta is up, I plan on reporting to M'Benga as unfit for duty. But I need this time to do what I can. Will you give it to me?"

Chapel was startled. "Unfit...Oh, Leonard." She blinked back tears.

He addressed the floor. "If you feel my patient work is compromised, you are at liberty to report that now.

She swallowed hard. "That won't be necessary."

He nodded. "Thank you. You'd better get some sleep, y'all have an early morning coming up." He turned toward his room.

"Leonard," Chapel called after him. He stopped but didn't turn around. "I'm...Sorry. You'll be fine."

He continued into his room without answering. Chapel held her tears until his door closed and she was alone.


	37. Chapter 37

**Finally here with another chapter! Thanks to all those who are sticking with my slow progress. So many things are going on in my life, and I am a slow writer in any case. I know where we're going, but sometimes the road changes and detours appear. There will be more about the birds in subsequent chapters, and of course angst and hurt-comfort eventually as well. Thank you for riding along.**

* * *

The Enterprise group was up before planet dawn. A somber mood seemed to affect everyone, there was none of the usual banter and the small amount of conversation was quiet and subdued.

They got ready and went to breakfast, then returned to their quarters to gather equipment. McCoy and Chapel loaded the field kit. He administered the first doses to everyone but T'Phol, and they went to the commons to wait on the crawler.

The area was deserted. Aminta night had faded into dawn. The big windows offered the entire courtyard into view. It was heavily overcast but not raining. The temperature was a few degrees below freezing and not expected to warm much during the day. McCoy glanced out the window before turning to the others.

"Remember you're not acclimated, even if you feel fine now. Everyone is on a schedule for Tri-ox boosters during the day, but just the same watch for signs of altitude sickness. If any of you start feeling bad, beam directly to the ship. Barry, protocol is hourly check-in to Enterprise." He paused, looking at each of them. "Be careful out there."

"You be careful here, Len," Uhura said. She drew him into a hug. To his surprise, Chapel also stepped forward for a quick embrace. He wasn't sure if the gesture was made as a peace offering or in pity, but he was glad to receive it either way. He did not like being at odds with his chief nurse.

"The crawler's here," Cassady announced. They gathered their equipment and moved through the double doors. T'Phol hung back as the others exited. She looked at him, not liking what she felt or saw in his eyes, the sense of resignation and sadness. She stepped close, touching his arm.

"I want to stay with you today."

He shook his head. "I'll be fine. You go to the site. Maybe you'll find something to help with the translation."

She wanted to hold him, but she hoisted the Moog instead and reluctantly followed the others. They climbed into the crawler with the crew from the compound and soon the vehicle moved forward. T'Phol looked back. McCoy stood in the entry watching them depart. She watched his lone figure until the crawler rounded a turn and the compound was out of sight.

* * *

It was an hour ride to Site Three. They were accompanied by the Rigelian team returning to the site. Beyond an initial greeting, the Rigelians had little to say. They sat together in the front of the crawler. There were several more seats, a few held a meager amount of supplies. The first bit of the journey was on smooth road surface, but most was spent lurching and bumping over rough terrain while belted to the thinly padded seats and gripping the handholds with fervor. Cassady's high spirit had returned, he seemed to enjoy the whole thing. At one point he actually whooped, prompting less than charitable glares from most of the others.

Giotto shook his head. "I don't know whether I want to be young again or not," he said to Uhura.

Cassady laughed. "At least we're out of the compound and seeing something different. You know this is fun. It's a little like balloon jumping on Siearra Ten."

Uhura huffed. "Right. With twice the gravity and half the padding." They went over an especially hard bump. "Ow!" She rubbed her hip. "That will leave a bruise."

T'Phol and Chapel were seated together in the back. T'Phol stared out the window at the passing scenery. The evergreens had given way to rocks, rough hills and grottos, dotted with thick-leaved succulents and pale lichens, a palette painted with dull greys and greens. Occasionally her sharp eyes caught a glimpse of one of the planet's rodent species scrabbling among the rocks. She did not see any sign of the birds or the other predator, the hyenas.

Chapel watched T'Phol out of the corner of her eye. She imagined neither of them had slept much the night before. She wondered if McCoy had confided to T'Phol his intent to report to M'Benga following their mission on Aminta. Somehow she doubted it, her boss was a stickler in adhering to need to know.

T'Phol turned to face her, as if aware she was being watched.

Chapel sighed. "I guess we are thinking about the same thing," she said quietly.

T'Phol glanced at the others in the front, they were talking. She pitched her voice soft and low as to not be overheard. "Very likely." She paused. "I offered to stay with him today. He sent me away."

Chapel bit at her bottom lip, a habit she hated. She immediately made herself stop.

"He promised to stay in. He will." That, at least, she could offer.

"No. That was not my concern. He is...different this morning. Disconsolate." She looked away from the solicitude she saw in Chapel's face, suppressing a sudden urge to tell her about the dreams.

Chapel also looked away. Apparently he had not told her about his decision, and she could not. They sat in separate, uneasy silences for a moment, both wrapped in different worries.

"I want to help him," T'Phol said, "but I am not sure how to proceed."

"You are helping. Just be there for him, no matter how things turn out with the birds." Chapel hesitated, the weight of confidentiality heavy against what she wanted to say. She chose her words carefully. "Doctor McCoy gives and gives, not just his medical care, he offers himself. Every single crew person is in his heart, and he feels profoundly everything that happens on this ship. We've been in deep space a long time. More than a quarter of our crew won't be coming home, not to mention all the other death and devastation we've seen out here. It's draining on us all, but especially on him. Leonard walks a difficult and lonely path, more so than any person I have ever known. He pays for it, because it's who and what he is inside, but that price is often dear."

T'Phol heard his voice saying, '...I'm not a taker, but I don't know what is left in me to give.' It came to her with unexpected force what she saw in his eyes that morning: Emptiness. She looked at Chapel, wanting to beg for reassurance, but something in the nurse's expression was forbidding and final. She turned back to the window. They didn't speak again as the Aminta landscape passed by, unseen.

* * *

Site Three, known in the log books as NPAII-3, was spread over about three acres atop a lofty plateau, a sparse collection of long, low, modern looking structures built from the ubiquitous grey and sparkly stone. Sprawling plants hugged close to the ground, their finger-like leaves seeming to claw for purchase in the rocky soil. Gravel paths ran between the sections, there was no perimeter wall. From that vantage, they could see a wide band of forest in the distance, and beyond that naked hills. It was chilly and breezy. Everyone fastened their coats tightly as they unloaded the supplies into the FSB standard quonset hut which served as the bunkhouse and office area.

After the supplies were stowed, Eaggla, the tall, thickly built Rigelian team leader, led them across the grounds to the largest building. It had once been a control center directing incoming spacecraft, he explained. He indicated the direction of the landing areas, now obscured and erased by the ravages of time and climate.

They stepped through the door. Inside it was somewhat warmer, although still chilly. The main area was circular, with cubicles divided around the perimeter. Aside from the research equipment, there was no electronic or computer gear at all, a glaring lack that Uhura questioned.

"Pillaging," Eaggla answered shortly. "Most recently around eight centuries ago. Almost all the controls and electronics of any sort, or anything else of monetary value is gone. Some sites were also heavily damaged, others remained untouched. The structures in this area are surprisingly intact, although the equipment was heavily looted. This was the primary center of activity, easily accessible. We use this building as our central station. As we recover documents and artifacts, they are staged and processed here, then shipped to the main compound at Site One. Our team is practically finished here, the material exhausted. We are preparing to close operations at this site within days. What remains of the document scans are here, if your people would like to have a look. You may use this computer station. If you require assistance, I shall be in the office, or you might find the historian in one of the adjacent buildings."

Eaggla left and Uhura turned to the rather small pile of record tapes on the counter. Giotto moved away to check in with the Enterprise. Chapel and Cassady watched for a few minutes as Uhura inserted and studied a tape and T'Phol set up the Moog. After a minute, Uhura tried another tape. T'Phol peered over her shoulder at the symbols.

"These are similar to many we saw yesterday," T'Phol remarked.

Uhura nodded. "They're the same dialect, a pre-Orion root. Apparently the Orions, or rather their ancestors, had a big interest in Aminta. The Orions were ruthless, shall we say, 'appropriaters', even then." She looked up. "It's hard to see what was so valuable here."

"Yes," Cassady said. "And why isn't it still valuable, assuming it's still here?"

"I wonder? It seems there are unanswered questions here about everything." She turned her attention back to the screen, tricorder ready. T'Phol took a seat and fed a tape into the other computer. The others walked around the large space, investigating the cubicles at the perimeter. Those were all empty, no desk or even a paper to mark their previous function.

T'Phol glanced through a couple of tapes, hoping to find something tonal, but they were the same Orion dialect, one that had already been heavily researched and had a translation protocol in place. She read a bit of the translation, but her mind was not on the task and she pushed back from the counter abruptly, causing Uhura to look up from her station.

T'Phol got to her feet. "Excuse me," she said to Uhura. "I am going to look around." She went out the door, not waiting for permission or reply. Uhura rose to go after her but Giotto was already on his way. He waved her back, fastened his coat, and followed T'Phol. Chapel crossed the room and took the recently vacated seat beside Uhura.

"What is going on here? Is everyone losing it?" Uhura rubbed her temple. "I am beginning to hate this place."

"Only beginning?" Chapel huffed forcefully. "I cannot wait to leave. Jasso and the damn birds can have it."

* * *

Giotto stepped through the door, the cold stinging his nostrils as he took a deep breath. T'Phol was walking rapidly, head down. He called to her. For a moment he thought she was not going to stop, and he knew in the thin air he did not have the breath or the stamina to catch up with her if she wouldn't. But she waited on him to reach her, then resumed walking at a slower pace. They walked together to the next building, smaller, but otherwise identical to the first on the exterior. There was no door, and they stepped inside escaping some of the cold wind. She pulled her hood back and looked into the dim room. It was almost a twin to the the other, dustier, but deserted. It was also much cooler, the windows were uncovered and the wind hissed around the empty frames.

"I was not in need of assistance. I do not intend to leave the area."

Giotto leaned his arm on the window ledge, looking out at the bare space between the buildings. "No one should be wondering here alone."

"I needed to move."

Giotto nodded. "I understand."

T'Phol looked at him, his square profile was almost a silhouette against the window light. He turned to her, his dark eyes warm and sympathetic.

"I do understand," he repeated, "but I am responsible for your safety. I take that charge seriously. And," he added with a quirk that was almost a smile, "Doc will stick needles in me if anything happens to you."

"Tending to me is a matter of self-preservation?"

Giotto nodded gravely. "Absolutely it is."

"Very well, Mister Giotto. I would not want you to suffer a pincushion effect on my behalf. Will you accompany me in a short exploration? I would like to see more buildings. Perhaps they are more exciting than these two. Or do you need to stay with the others?"

"Uhura and Cassady have phasers. I'll let them know what we're doing." He flipped his communicator open. Uhura answered immediately, sounding relieved. Giotto relayed their plan. In the background he heard Chapel.

"Barry, you have about an hour until the next tri-ox dose."

"Understood. We will remain nearby." He closed the communicator and followed T'Phol across the rocky field to the next structure. It was rectangular instead of rounded, but just as empty, without even a desk or counter. T'Phol let her eyes wander over the bare floor and walls. She turned to Giotto.

"It appears coming here was a waste of time. Empty buildings, no actual work underway, nothing new at all, the site preparing to cease operations. Arnette knew this, of course."

Giotto spread his hands. "Uhura did ask."

"I am sure this is not what she had in mind."

They stepped outside again, standing underneath the overhang. The air felt drier, the cloud cover not quite as heavy, but it was still below freezing and the wind cut. T'Phol drew her hood closer and pointed. There was another smaller building about three hundred yards down a increasing incline.

"One more?"

Giotto almost said no. Under other circumstances he could have trotted a dozen times over such terrain without excess difficulty, even in higher gravity. All security personnel had enhanced G training, but when coupled with the thin air under real conditions, he knew he was operating far under his optimum threshold. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.

"This will have to be the last. Afterward we will return to the others."

They traversed what appeared to have once been a path, now rutted and strewn with loose rocks that tended to slide underfoot. They picked their way carefully, arriving without mishap.

The exterior of the third building was different, not as smooth with hewn marks apparent in the stone. There was a sturdy door, made from thin grained wood that looked almost like bleached bone. The two narrow windows were covered with glass or some transparent material. T'Phol knocked. When there was no answer, she tried the knob. The door was unlocked so they stepped through. Inside the ceiling was low with barely enough room for T'Phol to stand upright.

The room was rather dim, the only light coming from the windows. It was warm as well, in fact, the warmest place T'Phol had seen so far on Aminta. She drew back her hood and unfastened her coat.

It was not empty. The shelves on the wall were stacked with tapes, papers PADDs and some old fashioned books. Two desks were arranged back to back, one held a gleaming computer terminal, glowing softly in the dimness, the other a haphazard pile of both electronic devices and papers. A small table sat under a window, spread with a lace tablecloth and flanked by two ladderback chairs. A door in the back was covered with a thick curtain.

"Hello," Giotto called. "Is anyone here?"

The curtain parted and a slight, elderly human slipped through. He stopped short, making a small harrumph sound, then crossed the room to meet them. Although he walked with a limp, he carried himself straight and his sharp, clear eyes inspected them over the spectacles perched low on his nose.

"Excuse us, Sir," Giotto said, stepping forward. "We did not mean to intrude. The other buildings were not occupied."

"Starfleet, are you?"

"Yes, Sir. I am Barry Giotto. This is Miss Grayson. We are here on a temporary assignment."

"I know why you're here. Do you?" His gaze was piercing as his eyes raked over them, settling on T'Phol. "You're not Starfleet," he stated flatly.

"No. I am a musician. Eaggla mentioned a historian. Is that you?"

His laugh was short and bitter. "Among other descriptions. You're already in. Take off your coats if you want. I was brewing some tea. Civility demands I offer you a cup."

"I would like a cup of tea. Graciousness demands I thank you," T'Phol said.

Another bark of laughter, with more sincerity and he disappeared through the curtain, returning with a laden tray. He set it carefully on the lace covered table and poured into three cups from a dainty tea pot.

T'Phol shrugged out of her coat before accepting the tea. "Thank you." She took a sip, nodding appreciatively. "It is quite good."

He snorted. "Of course it is. I've been making tea longer than both of you have been alive."

He lowered himself into a chair, motioning for Giotto and T'Phol to sit as well. His thick and wavy white hair was pulled back in a pony tail, his pale skin almost unlined.

"May we know your name?" Giotto stood, not quite at attention.

"You can call me Peggy. Have a cookie."

T'Phol sat in the chair across from him, picking up a cookie from the tray. Giotto remained standing. "You said you know why we are here," he prompted.

"I know a great many things." He frowned up at Giotto. "Are you going to sit or make me strain my neck to talk to you?" He looked across the table. "Never mind, I'd rather talk to her. She's better mannered, and she likes tea and cookies."

"Sorry, Sir." Giotto sat at a desk. The lacy table and delicate, painted porcelain seemed out of sync in the surroundings, a surreal diorama plucked from another time and place. The room was almost uncomfortably warm, he slipped out of his coat before picking up a cup.

T'Phol finished her cookie. "Do you live here?"

"Technically no. In practice, yes. The Rigelians live in a veritable freezer. I prefer to work without mittens and overcoats. I have a cot in the back room." He set his tea cup on the table and turned his attention to Giotto as if taking measure. He leaned forward suddenly. "Why do you think they call me Peggy?"

Giotto replied immediately. "I'd say because of your leg."

T'Phol blinked at the unexpected turn and looked down. Peggy's pants leg had ridden up a few inches above his shoe. The exposed area between shoe top and trouser was not covered with a sock, and was obviously wooden and not flesh.

Peggy's chuckle was surprisingly mellow and low. He glanced at T'Phol. "You may have better manners, which is remarkable for a Vulcan, but your guard is more observant. I do, indeed, have a peg leg. Antiquated, I know. I have a modern artificial limb, but wearing the peg reminds me of our Human fallibility." His laughter stopped abruptly. "Tell me, Mister Giotto, what do your observations tell you about this place and your role here?"

"Our ship delivered supplies, a medical team to cover the mandated physicals, and a linguistics team to assist in translation of certain documents."

"Bah. I didn't ask for the official line. What do _you_ think? What does _your intuition_ say _?_ I know it speaks to you. Do you listen?"

"Yes. I listen." Giotto did not elaborate.

Peggy waited, then nodded. "Ship's man, a lifer they used to call them. Have you been in security your whole career?"

Giotto saw no reason to refute the little man's guess. "Yes, Sir, for thirty years."

T'Phol finished her tea and set her cup gently on the table. "May I ask how you knew he is security? That seems a remarkable deduction, particularly when arrived at within minutes with very little conversation."

"You look at things. You have to learn to see. Mister Giotto placed himself in the line of fire the instant I entered the room. His stance indicated his dominant hand was free and clear, and he stood balanced and ready to move. Notice he is sitting on the edge of the chair, ready to spring into action even now. Although he holds a tea cup, he has not taken a sip, and is, in fact, observing you for ill effects should my humble libation be tainted. But he seems also to be a judge of character. He did not stop you from partaking because he does not believe the tea to be poisoned." His pale eyes darted back to Giotto. "Am I right?"

Giotto inclined his head. "Nicely deduced." He set his tea on the table untouched.

"I would like to know why we are here," T'Phol said. "Will you tell us?"

"I thought you are here to help translate. Do you believe otherwise?"

"I do not know. There seems to be very little actual research happening, at least where we have seen. And Eaggla informs us this site is closing. Of course, it does appear empty, with the exception of your building."

"The recovered items have been packed out. There wasn't much here in the first place. This site is prominent and was heavily looted during the second wave. This was the third site opened to excavation." He peered at T'Phol over the top of his eyeglasses. "I am sure Osmond did not request a Starfleet presence. Those physicals could have been done by any doctor. I suspect someone wants to know why the work here has stagnated over the past months."

"Why has it?"

"That is an interesting question."

Giotto stood. "Excuse me, I must check in with our ship and the other part of our team." He looked at T'Phol. "We will need to head back soon." He moved to a corner with his communicator. Peggy's eyes followed him, then he turned back to T'Phol.

"A good man," he said simply. "We won't let him be late for his Tri-ox."

"No, I am sure the nurse will remind him. May we return to the interesting question?"

Peggy chuckled. "You are persistent. You are a musician, are you also a philologist? Why did Starfleet bring you, a civilian, here?"

"I am surprised you can't tell me."

Peggy huffed. "Although I have excellent observational skill, I am not a mind reader, and I have misplaced my crystal ball."

"I have synesthesia."

"A talent that might be useful when interpreting tonal records. I see." He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "There are quite a few of those, but I'd be shocked if you have access to more than a small percentage. Were you issued a badge?"

At T'Phol's nod, he snorted. "That's not a pass, you understand, it's a throttle."

"What would be the purpose in restricting access to documents that are centuries old?"

"Ah. Another interesting question." He leaned back in his chair, looking at the ceiling. "Squirrels," he said. T'Phol quickly looked up, causing Peggy to laugh.

"No, not here. Squirrels, little chattering Earth rodents, what are they famous for?"

T'Phol shrugged, confused. "Bushy tails?"

Giotto returned from his calls and sat again at the desk. "Wreaking havoc?"

Peggy sighed. "They hide things, specifically nuts and acorns. There is a saying, 'to squirrel away', that's no idle quote. Information is being hidden here on Aminta. There is something here on this planet that someone is interested in hiding." He brought the legs of his chair to the floor with a thump. "I think the wrong questions are being asked. This place was once a space port, perhaps thriving would be an overstatement, but it was a bit of a trade post for this sector. Certainly Aminta received regular visits from several races over the course of three thousand years. Then all activity ceased. Not gradually. Practically overnight. One day it's business as usual. Then never again. The only visitors to the planet in the following two thousand years were two waves of raiders- the first unknown, the second most likely Orion- until the Andorians re-discovered it two years ago. A silent but catastrophic event occurred here two millennia ago. And it has been almost totally ignored."

"Our head linguist said there is some evidence that Aminta was a headquarters for pirates smuggling drugs. Could the two things be related?"

"Could they, indeed. Asking questions like that will get you demoted and removed from any real access to further research."

"Is that what happened to you?" Giotto asked.

"Yes. Ostentatiously because the job was too hard on my frail body and mind. Osmond Jasso tried to save me, but they brought in another assistant director. Arnette." He practically spat her name. "She tried to have me sent altogether off-planet, but I managed to stick to this outpost. She knows out here I am harmless, an old, wile snake, but without teeth. Thus I am allowed to stay. That was nine months ago, a time that happens to coincide with the downturn in academic output and the beginning turnover in the researchers stationed here. She is insulating the lab with her own people, and working on replacing the field teams. Those badges are her doing. There are only a handful of the original archeologists left, the Vulcan team, Eaggla, Jasso, myself. Many records have become inaccessible, they used to be in the database, now they're gone or classified. And she is gunning for Osmond, he is under siege." He paused, returning his glasses to their perch on his nose.

"This planet was a peaceful trading post for three thousand years. There is no evidence that clandestine activity was occurring until almost the end of that period. Aminta was not simply the avenue for whatever was being smuggled two thousand years ago. I believe it was the source. Apparently that something is still here, and someone wants it, badly. Badly enough to ignore planet history. Someone, or something, halted that activity once before, suddenly, completely, and without leaving a trace. If one thing is still here, it doesn't seem too much of a jump to think the other might still be around, too."

"What do you think happened here two thousand years ago?" T'Phol asked, keeping her tone as casually neutral as possible, but she could feel the blood pulsing in her head like drums.

Peggy looked at her, homing in on her uneasiness immediately. His face grew still and serious. "No one knows. There are, of course, no records subsequent to the event."

Giotto's communicator chirped before Peggy could continue. He flipped it open. "Giotto here."

"Chapel here. It's time for you to head back. Your booster is due in just a few minutes."

"Understood. We're on our way." He stood, fastening the communicator to his belt. T'Phol was already on her feet, pulling on her coat and turning toward the door. Peggy rose from his chair, he was watching T'Phol, his expression concerned. Giotto put on his own coat, fastening it against the cold.

"A pleasure to meet you, Sir," he said, extending his hand. Peggy shook it, still watching T'Phol. She turned, her hand on the door knob.

"Thank you for the tea," she said. "And the warmth. It was a welcome respite. Good afternoon, Sir." She slipped through the door.

Peggy looked at Giotto. "You are welcome to come back. I'd like to chat more with both of you."

"Thank you, Sir. Perhaps if our duties allow. Good day." He exited the little room, closing the door behind him. T'Phol was waiting for him at the foot of the incline, although he would not have been surprised if she had continued to flee straight up the hill. He walked up to her, she looked at the ground. "Why did you run?"

"You need your Tri-ox." She kicked at a rock. It went skittering across the dirt. Giotto's eyes followed as it came to rest in a rut.

"Or maybe you didn't want to hear what he might say." His tone was soft, belying the harshness of his statement.

She didn't answer.

He nodded, looking up the slope. Somehow it looked much steeper from the bottom. He sighed.

T'Phol looked up. "The appearance is worse than the reality. Come on, Barry. I will help you," she said, unexpectedly.

Giotto was not arrogant. He gladly accepted her outstretched hand, relying on her strength and stamina several times as they climbed the slope. By the time they reached the top, he was soundly out of breath. They paused for a moment to allow him time to recover a bit before joining the others in the main building.

Chapel ran the medical scanner over him, frowning. "Why didn't you come back sooner? Your oxygen sat is at ninety percent." She prepared a hypo, then another, injecting him with both.

"I was all right until we climbed a hill getting back." He breathed deeply, grateful for the new rush of oxygen.

"Well, sit down and let the Tri-ox take over. And no more excursions. What was so interesting out there, anyway?"

"We met the historian. An odd little guy, to say the least. It appears he was Jasso's assistant before Arnette. Evidently he was forced out because of his age."

"Or other factors," T'Phol put in. "He thinks there is a conspiracy here to hide certain information. He was pushed aside to facilitate that plan."

Chapel pursed her lips, obviously biting back a comment. Uhura stood, stretching her back. "What kind of information?"

Giotto answered. "Information about the drug smuggling, and the demise of the port facilities. He believes the two are connected, and the current administration is involved in some sort of scheme to withhold information and re-direct the inquiry away from Aminta's history, presumably because they want to continue where the Orions left off two thousand years ago." He shook his head. "It seems a little far-fetched, almost like paranoia, but he's persuasive. He seems to know what he's talking about. I've no doubt he is who he said he is."

"He claims Arnette is sending away the original staff and replacing the lab and field teams with her people," T'Phol said. "That seems plausible."

Cassady grunted. "On the other hand, who would want to stay here? Maybe they're jumping ship."

"I would certainly leave the first chance I got," Chapel said. "Others probably feel that way, too."

T'Phol did not reply. Uhura massaged her temples. Headaches were becoming the norm, and she doubted they were all due to thin air.

"Speaking of leaving, how long before we go back to base?" Cassady asked.

Uhura raised a brow at him. "I thought you were anxious to get out and see things."

"I was. But it's cold here, and boring. And I'm hungry."

"Eat a snack bar."

"I already did."

"Truth is, Cass, I'm cold and ready to leave, too," Uhura admitted. "This trip has not been productive at all. Not that we were making a lot of headway in the lab, but at least we had something new to work with. So far, these have all been solved dialects." She waved her hand at the record tapes. The computer screen stared balefully back at her.

"To answer your question, we have another hour or so," Giotto said to Cassady, who produced an exaggerated sigh.

Uhura turned back to the computer, plugging in another tape. Chapel ran another medical scan on Giotto, whose pulmonary function had improved and stabilized at an acceptable level. Cassady stared glumly out the window.

T'Phol turned on the Moog, passing her hand lightly over a keyboard. Almost without thinking, she started to play, a simple melody at first, adding layers as the work progressed. It was soon apparent to the others she was transcribing Piasa's song, still haunting although performed by an alien hand using an instrument from another world. Engrossed in the effort, she did not notice the door open behind her to admit a visitor, who motioned everyone to be quiet, and they all listened together. She ended as gently as she began, the notes fading into silence. She heard the slow clapping when she finished, and she turned, acknowledging Peggy with a nod.

"Bravo, my dear. An original work?" His eyes were on her, piercing and sharp.

"It is not mine."

"Hmm." He looked around the group.

Giotto stood. "This is the rest of our team, Lieutenant Uhura, Nurse Chapel, Yeoman Cassady." He paused. "This is- Peggy."

Peggy nodded to the others in turn. "My given name is Edwin Teal. But Peggy is fine."

"Edwin Teal? Author of the Teal Cypher Protocol?" Uhura's voice rose with excitement.

"Yes. Codes and cyphers were my specialty before I retired."

"I am delighted to meet you in person, Doctor Teal." She looked at the others. "The Teal protocol has formed the basis for almost all decoding programs used in the Federation in the past forty years. It's the Bible for modern decryption algorithm."

Peggy held up his hand. "I am not a god, nor do I want the job." He turned to Giotto. "Did I give you enough time to thoroughly discuss my foible?"

"Perhaps not thoroughly," Giotto said, prompting a chuckle from Peggy.

"You can always continue it later. I was rather enjoying your visit. Since you had to leave so suddenly, I thought I'd pop in up here. I am acclimated, as I am sure you all are not. Except, of course, your resident Vulcan."

He looked at the pile of record chips laying beside the computer, then at Uhura. "Those must contain the keys to open the Seven Seals and unlock the mysteries of the Cosmos?"

Uhura shook her head. "They contain nothing new. They are actually an Orion dialect that already has a translation protocol in place."

"You won't be allowed to see anything of importance, here or back at the base," Peggy said with certainty, chuffing his hands against the cold, suddenly feeling every day of his age. Chapel immediately offered him a chair, so he sat, rubbing his knee above the peg. Noting Chapel's concerned expression, he straightened with a wry smile.

"I feel the cold more every year. I don't know why I'm not on a lovely tropical planet, sucking up some alcoholic concoction served in a coconut shell adorned with a tiny parasol. I should be."

"How long have you been retired?" Uhura asked, taking the chair beside him.

"Technically, I suppose I'm not. I've stayed busy consulting and in the field since I left my Academy position almost twenty years ago. You are the linguist of the group. What area is your specialty?"

"Computational linguistics, specifically MAT and MAHT algorithmic equations."

"But you haven't found anything here to get your teeth into." At her look, he nodded. "As I said, you won't. At least not in those areas of the database where your badge will allow access. But Miss Grayson was working on something extraordinary when I walked in." He caught Cassady's wide-eyed look of surprise and saw Chapel's lips thin in disapproval. Giotto and Uhura broadcasted nothing by their mannerisms.

"That is a piece I am transcribing," T'Phol said.

"T'Phol and I are collaborating in writing code," Uhura added.

"Ah. The ethereal meets the concrete. A pairing that deserves a great deal of attention, I should think." He looked at T'Phol.

"Does your synesthesia help in that process?"

"Occasionally."

Peggy saw her reluctance to engage and relented for the moment, turning his attention to the others. "What is your ship?"

"The Enterprise," Cassady said.

"Stated proudly," Peggy said, "as you should. I am surprised Aminta merits the attention of Starfleet's finest. No matter. You are here, even if your reception was lacking enthusiasm. I assume your visit will be short-lived. Is there a contingent that will be staying behind?"

"Not from Starfleet. The Enterprise will be leaving in a few days."

"Not much time for unraveling mysteries, is it?"

Uhura's brow rose. "I was not aware we were sent on a sleuthing mission."

"It was rather a short time period to expect any breakthrough in translating new material, wouldn't you say?"

"We were in the neighborhood," Uhura said. "We sometimes serve as couriers, ferrying people and supplies from point A to point B. And there were several documents set aside for us in the lab. T'Phol had the preliminary data on those before we arrived." She gave a slight shrug. "Except for today, I would not say our time has been wasted."

Peggy smiled. "The day is not finished." He hoisted himself from his seat, grunting a little at the effort, and made his way over to the counter where T'Phol stood. He reached out, touching the polished edge of the Moog's case.

"This is a curious device. It functions as both a musical instrument and a computer?"

"It is a sound synthesizer with some limited additional computer function. It is called a Moog."

Peggy leaned forward, his eyes searching T'Phol's face. "What can you tell me about the piece you were working with earlier?"

"I twas transposing the key from its original C-sharp to G. Although Listz, Ravel, and Bach have well-known works in C-Sharp, that key does not lend itself well to performance by a woodwind ensemble."

Peggy's voice grew quiet. "You were translating?"

"No. I was transcribing."

"Transcribe; to write out in another language, transliterate?"

"In music, to arrange a composition for an instrument other than it was originally written. It is a common practice."

"For what instrument was this music originally intended?"

"Voice."

"May I inquire the source of the original?"

T'Phol hesitated, glancing at Uhura. Peggy sighed audibly.

"I suppose I cannot blame you for your reluctance," he said, "as I have undoubtedly reinforced your mistrust of anything here on Aminta."

"It's not that we don't trust you, Doctor Teal," Uhura began.

"What is your interest in this?" T'Phol interrupted. "Your initial reaction seemed one of surprised recognition. Have you heard the song before?"

Peggy regarded T'Phol with with his pale eyes, she returned his scrutiny unwaveringly.

"No. I would like to hear the original version."

T'Phol turned to the Moog without further comment and turned a dial. Piasa's song reverberated in the empty space. She let it play for a few minutes before stopping the recording. The silence seemed to echo around the stone walls and within the group.

Peggy ran a hand across his face. "I must know what that is, exactly, and how did you come across it?"

Uhura raised a brow. "I thought you recognized it. You don't know?"

"Not definitively."

"That was a song from one of the Amintian avian predators," Uhura said.

"We call them birds," added Cassady.

"How did you get this?" Peggy asked. "It certainly is not in the data base."

T'Phol closed the Moog's cover and fastened the latch before replying.

"Our physician recorded it yesterday."

"Yesterday?" Peggy's voice rose in surprise as he stared incredulously at T'Phol. He had always considered himself to be astutely clever; seldom could he recall such a feeling of sheer astonishment. "That is- remarkable. I don't know of anyone that has attempted to approach the creatures." He paused. "Not that anyone has had a reason to try. They seem wary of people. Until recently, sightings have been scarce, and from afar. I certainly have never heard one sing. Nor, I imagine, has anyone else here on Aminta."

They were interrupted by the door opening. Eaggla stuck his head far enough inside to tell them departure time was near, nodding briefly at Peggy before he withdrew. They began gathering their things. In a few minutes, Eaggla was back, announcing the crawler was waiting. They filed out, Uhura and T'Phol followed behind the others with Peggy bringing up the rear.

"Are you coming with us?" Uhura asked.

"I think not," Peggy replied. "I try to stay away from the main compound."

"Where will you go when this site shuts down?"

"I'm sure I'll find somewhere. The Vulcans are at Site Five, and rumor has it another location has been identified using drone mapping. Or," he smiled, "maybe I'll really retire and finally move to a tropical paradise. You take care in your journey, Miss Uhura."

Uhura climbed into the crawler, leaving only T'Phol and Peggy still standing in the cold wind. He spoke softly, his voice pitched for her ears only.

"You have undisclosed concerns in this matter."

"I am not alone in that account. It seems there are many secrets and hidden agendas here on Aminta. One does not have to look far to be inundated by them."

"It seems so." His eyes were on her, keen and cutting. She had an uncomfortable feeling he was dissecting her very substance, deciding what was worthy of his consideration and what might be tossed aside as lacking. Suddenly he stepped close, laying his hand on her elbow.

"Perhaps we will have the chance to speak again. I must re-evaluate my understanding of the part you and your team are playing here, and by whose direction, and I do not understand how the creatures fit in. Things are not as they appear. Beware who you trust."

"Including you?"

Peggy threw back his head in a hearty laugh that exposed a row of perfect teeth.

"Especially me, my dear. I am a acerbic, paranoid, old man with nothing left to lose. Go on now. Be careful." He watched as T'Phol boarded with the Moog. Eaggla put the crawler into gear and they started the trip back to base. His arthritis howled as he made his own slow way back to the welcoming heat of his cabin, deep in thought.

* * *

The return ride was as rough as the trip out. The light was barely waning when they pulled into the compound. They disembarked wearily, plodding into the main building, their enthusiasm for the project at an ebb.

T'Phol was disappointed that McCoy was not at the door to meet them. They passed by the clinic, which was dark and unoccupied on the way to their own area. McCoy's door was closed, she remembered his promise to take a nap. She took a minute to put the Moog on the counter and visit the bathroom. When she came out, she heard Giotto on the communicator in his own room, the others were putting away their things. Uhura came out of the bathroom and picked up a snack just as Giotto came from his room, his face grave.

"We have a situation," he said. "A security team will be arriving from the ship in a few minutes."

"Why? What's happened?" Uhura put down the protein bar she was unwrapping.

"The Vulcan authorities found the bodies of two Andorian scientists this afternoon. They were murdered. Want to guess their names?"

Uhura gasped. "Not Kelan and Vartheb?"

Giotto nodded grimly. "It appears the Andorians we carried are at the very least imposters, maybe murderers."

T'Phol opened McCoy's door, but the soft greeting on her lips froze before she uttered a sound. His bed was empty and he was not there. She threw the door open and turned to Giotto.

"We have another problem," she said, unaccustomed emotion shading her voice. "Leonard is gone."


	38. Chapter 38

The attempt to contact McCoy by communicator was not successful, so they immediately began a search. His coat, tricorder, and medikit were all missing, but they found his access badge and communicator at the computer station in the clinic. Giotto stared at the communicator, his heart sinking as he muttered a curse under his breath and contacted the Enterprise.

Within minutes the security team materialized, the captain at their head. A second group followed, Chief Freeman, Doctor M'Benga, and a medic with a large field kit. Jasso appeared around the corner just as the second group finished materializing, obviously hurried, his face reflecting his alarm. His voice quivered a bit as he addressed Kirk.

"This is horrible, murderers posing as scientists. _You_ brought them here. How did this happen? I insist on a full accounting of this situation from Starfleet."

James T. Kirk wore his anger like an ominous cloak, invisible, but palpable. Underneath was his more personal, immediate concern, the worry over his missing CMO and friend, but outwardly he was all cool and efficient commander. His eyes narrowed as he stepped forward, almost toe to toe with Jasso, who did not give ground.

"They may or may not be the murderers. That is one reason we're here, to apprehend the imposters and ascertain what is going on. We aim to find the truth." He paused for a heartbeat. "We also aim to find my Chief Medical Officer. Where is Doctor McCoy?"

Both Kirk and Giotto were watching Jasso's reaction closely as he blinked in surprise. "I have no idea," he said. "He reported the physicals were complete just before midday. That was my only interaction with him today. You might look for him outside with the bird creatures, even though I have forbidden contact with them. He has some sort of morbid fascination with those beasts."

Giotto held up McCoy's badge. "We found this in the clinic, along with his communicator. He would not have gone outside without it."

Kirk took the badge from Giotto, turning it over in his hand. He looked at Jasso. "Can you track this thing, see where it's been?"

Jasso looked at the device with undisguised revulsion. "Those badges are Arnette's responsibility. I have nothing to do with them."

Kirk was struck by the venom in Jasso's voice, he almost snarled her name. His stomach clenched as a Bad Feeling clicked into place, an intuition he could not explain, but trusted wholly when it occurred. His demeanor turned cold.

"Where are the Andorian imposters? Which site?"

Jasso dragged a hand across his eyes, looking thoroughly miserable. "They are with one of the Andorian teams at Site Four. The map is in my office. You won't be able to transport there, you'll need a crawler."

"And where will we find Arnette?"

"She is probably in her office."

Kirk turned to M'Benga. "Start preparing the teams. We'll leave shortly." He motioned to Uhura, Giotto, and Freeman and they followed Jasso to his office. Jasso punched up a map on his computer. Site Four was the most distant, about six kilometers away, and solidly within a magnesite area.

Kirk flipped open his communicator and hailed the Enterprise.

"Scott here," came the immediate response. "Any sign of Doctor McCoy?"

"Negative. Prepare to receive mapping and coordinates on Site Four. Then have Chekov begin scanning for human lifeforms beginning at this location, expanding the radius every sweep. Doctor McCoy does not have his communicator, but apparently he does have his medikit. " He looked at Jasso. "Does everyone here carry one of these badges?"

"I don't. Neither does Arnette. As far as I am aware, the others do."

"Scotty, scan the device in my hand. Most people here will have one, the individual signature will vary."

"Aye, Sir," came Chekov's voice. "Got it."

"How many do you read?"

"Seventeen, Sir, counting yours. All in the main building."

Jasso nodded. "That would be right. Today there are eleven other personnel, and the six visitor badges belonging to your group."

"Additional life signs, Chekov?"

"Dere are two more in the building, Keptin. You are standing next to one, and a second is thirty two meters distant, bearing twenty mark four."

"That would be down Long Hall, Arnette's office," said Giotto.

"Thank you, Mister Chekov. Continue scanning, keep me informed. Kirk out." He closed his communicator with an abrupt motion, looking at Jasso. "Call Arnette. I have some questions."

"And I have some questions for you, Kirk. How could these criminals get away with boarding a Federation starship without being discovered? Do you not have safeguards in place to prevent this sort of wanton violation?"

"They had credentials and the correct transponder signature. Believe me, they had some help. We _will_ find out who and how. We'll interview anyone who had contact with them, beginning with administration, right after we get them into custody. First I want to talk to Arnette."

Jasso punched a button angrily, barking into the intercom. Arnette arrived quickly, stopping just inside the door with no indication that she was surprised or perturbed by the Enterprise crowd. She gave a spare nod to Kirk before turning to Jasso. "You called?"

"Yes. We have a situation."

"Indeed we do, Miss Arnette," Kirk said. "More than one. Doctor McCoy is missing. What can you tell me about his badge?"

Arnette raised a cool eyebrow, looking at the badge in Kirk's hand. "That is simply an electronic access, taking the place of passwords or physical scans."

"Can you tell where it's been? Especially earlier today?"

"It is not a tracking device."

"Did you speak with McCoy today?"

"I sent the final patient to the clinic just after four, Aminta time. I noticed the reports were filed and the charts finished before lunch. I have not seen or spoken with any of your group since last night."

"What do you know about the two Andorians we transported here?"

"Every scientist stationed here has a dossier in my office, Captain." Arnette paused. "Am I to know what this is about?"

Kirk's mouth tightened, not liking the tilt of her chin and he imagined he could see a glitter of resentment in her eyes.

"Vulcan authorities discovered the bodies of the real Vartheb and Kelan earlier today. It appears the others are imposters or worse. We'll need any information you have on them."

Arnette's expression did not change. "Very well. Will that be all?"

"For the moment. You may deliver those records to Lieutenant Uhura." Kirk watched her depart, then looked at Jasso. "I am beaming down a second team to begin searching for Doctor McCoy. I expect your full cooperation."

Jasso sighed, his anger deflating. "Of course. I tried to warn him about those beasts. He would not listen."

Giotto spoke, his words sharp. "Did he tell you he was going outside today or to hunt the birds?"

"No. He commed me some time before I took lunch. He said the physicals were complete and the records had been forwarded to Arnette's office. We discussed nothing else." He looked at Kirk, expelling a breath through his nose. "I may have clashed with Doctor McCoy, but I have no reason to wish him harm. I hope you find him well, but Aminta is not a friendly planet to the uninitiated."

"Have the crawler ready in ten minutes. Don't announce what's happening, but I think it'd be wise for your people here and at all sites to stay put until we have the imposters in custody. If necessary, you can consider that an order." Kirk motioned for Giotto and Freeman to follow and they stepped from Jasso's office and into the hall. The others were waiting in the commons. He scanned their faces, noting varying degrees of anxiousness and concern before turning to Freeman and Giotto.

"I need both of you at Site Four. I'm bringing down the SAR team to begin the search for Bones. If he is out looking for his birds, he can't have gotten far on foot and without equipment."

Giotto shook his head. "Sir, I don't believe he went out to find the birds. Last night we discussed my unease at splitting the landing party, and he assured me he would not leave the building today."

"That is correct, Captain," said T'Phol. "He did not go looking for Piasa."

Kirk turned to her. "You sound very certain, Miss Grayson. Why? Do you have any idea where he could be?"

"I do not. But he gave his word he would stay inside until we returned. I understand he follows through on his promises."

"He does. But when he has a puzzle, he's also like a dog with a bone, gnawing until he gets to what's inside."

"He did not go looking for the birds," T'Phol repeated stubbornly.

"Maybe not, but we have to start somewhere." Kirk called the ship, speaking orders into his communicator before addressing the others. "Uhura, get those records from Arnette, send them to the ship, then coordinate between the ship and both planet-side teams. Cassady and Nurse Chapel stay here with you. M'Benga can accompany the SAR team, we'll take the medic. Miss Grayson will return to the Enterprise."

"No. I would prefer to stay and help with the search for Doctor McCoy," T'Phol said immediately.

"I can't allow that. I am responsible for your safety, and this mission has turned toward danger."

"I am acclimated already, the thin air poses no problem for me."

"I'm sorry." Kirk nodded to Giotto and Freeman, but found T'Phol stepping in front of him, almost toe to toe.

"Captain, you must let me stay. I have the Moog with new birdsong, Piasa singing to him. I can interface with the record library in the lab, perhaps make a breakthrough in the translation. It may contain answers or clues about what has happened to Doctor McCoy. Perhaps I can be of some assistance down here. I cannot on the Enterprise." She felt Kirk's resolve waver a bit. "I have to try. Please."

Kirk relented, sighing heavily. "Very well. You are not to leave the compound, understood?"

"Understood." T'Phol stepped aside, watching as he and the rest of the security team swept through the double doors and into the waiting crawler. She briefly wondered if she inadvertently used her psi power against Kirk to sway his decision, She had never consciously attempted such a breech, doing so would be anathema to the Vulcan creed. Her father wielded similar psi ability in the exploitation of his followers. The comparison was frightening and left her unsettled, whether the manipulation was deliberate on her part or not, if indeed it existed.

The feeling was rather like telling a blatant lie.

She decided she did not have time to care.

* * *

Soon the Search and Rescue team arrived, carrying scanners and other specialized equipment. They consulted with Uhura, gathered M'Benga, then left to begin covering the area surrounding the compound in a feet on the ground search. Uhura and Cassady began setting up operations at a computer terminal in the commons.

T'Phol watched as Chapel fussed with the field kit for a moment, rearranging hypos, then sat on a bench. T'Phol sensed anger and frustration, but overlaying that was fear, swirling and dark. She approached the nurse cautiously and sat on the edge of the bench. Chapel looked away to the greyness outside the window where day was fading into twilight.

"I should have known." Chapel spoke barely above a whisper.

"Known?"

"That he wouldn't be able to resist going to his precious 'birds'."

"He did not go looking for the birds," T'Phol said quietly.

Chapel shifted to face T'Phol. Something in those intense green eyes caused her to swallow the biting comment on her lips. Instead she asked, "Where do you think he went, if not to Piasa?"

"I do not know." T'Phol paused. "But he would not have broken his given word to stay inside until we returned. He promised."

Chapel huffed, shaking her head. "It's not that simple. Jasso was correct when he said Leonard is obsessed with those creatures. And he feels compelled to help them. Compulsion is a powerful force. Powerful enough, maybe, to override a promise."

"In this case you are mistaken."

"You don't understand the irresistible effect that compulsion has on the human mind."

"On the contrary, Nurse, I understand it all too well." T'Phol breathed deeply, closing her eyes against the cold unease rolling in her stomach. She regained control and opened them, meeting Chapel's clinical gaze. "Perhaps the general assumption is faulty and we are asking the wrong question. Other than meeting the birds, what might have enticed him to leave?"

"Nothing, short of a patient needing help." Chapel drew in a sudden breath. "Of course! His Oath takes precedence over everything."

Uhura, just finishing the final connection, looked up at Chapel's exclamation. "I thought of that, too. But neither Jasso nor Arnette mentioned a medical emergency, and everyone who is supposed to be here is present and accounted for." She returned a fine tool to its case and turned to face them. "The captain is going to interview everyone as soon as he returns." Her eyes cut involuntarily to the window and the approaching night. The last of daylight was fading away. The perimeter lights came on, casting dull pools of light, which only made the darkness seem deeper beyond their pallid reach. She shuddered at the thought of Len being out there alone in the cold and dark. If he did go looking for his bird friends, she hoped he had found them and they were keeping him safe.

T'Phol stood. "I shall go to my quarters and begin working with the translation."

Uhura also stood. "Can't you do that here? It's past time to eat. I think the landing party should stick together."

"I am not hungry. Time is at a premium. Minimal distraction will accelerate my pace. May I borrow your tricorder? There are certain things I will not trust to the interface."

Uhura hesitated a moment, then handed her the tricorder.. T'Phol bowed slightly, formally, then headed down the hall toward their quarters. Uhura's eyes followed her until she turned the corner. Then she turned to Cassady.

"Give her a few minutes. Get some fruit and energy bars from the galley. Take them to her. Even Vulcans have to eat."

"In other words, make sure she's where she is supposed to be."

Uhura shot him a withering glance, which Cassady shrugged off. "Then can we eat? We skipped lunch and I'm starving."

Uhura's look softened. Her own stomach felt like it contained rocks mixed with equal parts of worry and trepidation. She was not sure she would be able to force a bite down, but Cassady was a young man, barely grown into adulthood. This was his first landing party mission in his first deep space assignment, and he was still armored with a veneer of invincibility. She fervently hoped that armor would not be cracked this time. She mustered a smile and patted his arm.

"Yes. After that, we'll have 'supper'."

Cassady's look grew serious. "I know you're good friends with Doc, I mean Doctor McCoy. You know, for a skinny, old guy, he's pretty tough. He's going to be all right."

"Of course he is. Thank you, Cass." Her eyes pricked with tears, so she turned her attention to the new communication console, busying herself with testing a connection. Chapel moved to a more comfortable desk chair. Cassady waited a few minutes, then went to the galley, selecting a handful of fruit and bars and headed to their quarters.

T'Phol's door was standing partway open. Cassady could see her hunched over the desk, pressing earphones to her head. The Moog was attached both to the tricorder and the terminal. He knocked on the frame. She looked up and waved him in. He set the food on her desk. "Uhura though you might get hungry."

T'Phol glanced at the offering. "That was very thoughtful. Thank you."

He looked at the Moog. "Do you think there's a chance of breaking through soon?"

T'Phol shrugged. "There is always a chance."

"Yeah, but do you think there's something on there that might help? Find Doc, I mean."

"It is a place to begin."

Cassady tilted his head. "They say Vulcans are deliberately obtuse."

"Indeed?" T'Phol supressed a smile. She liked Cassady. They had a good many conversations while she was sequestered in the guest area. He was open and talkative, a somewhat sheltered child, doted on by a loving mother. He was an interesting mixture of innocence and insight, still almost an adolescent, but then in Vulcan terms, so was she. She laid the headphones aside. "What else do 'they' say?"

He sat on the edge of her bunk beside the Moog, rubbing the polished edge. "I dunno. Lots of things." He glanced up with an impish smile that made him look about fourteen. "Most of them are good."

T'Phol allowed her smile to show. "I am gratified the consensus is favorable."

"They say Vulcans can feel the thoughts of their mate, even when they're not near. Can't you feel his to know he's OK?"

T'Phol's brow raised in surprise. Obviously Vulcan ways were not as hidden as they used to be. Not so many years ago such a question would have been a repugnant invasion of privacy, especially coming from an off-worlder. The years of exposure to and inclusion of other worlds and cultures seemed to be eroding the insular and secretive nature of Vulcan mysticism, especially when it involved Earth and Humans.

"I feel obligated to tell you that such things on Vulcan are considered to be private."

"Oh. Sorry."

"However, I will answer your question. I cannot read his thoughts at any distance, because Doctor McCoy and I are not bonded in the Vulcan way."

"That's too bad. That skill would come in handy right now."

"Yes it would."

"Uhura is afraid you are going to sneak off to look for him. Are you?"

"There is an experienced and well-equipped team searching for him as we speak, as well as the crew on the Enterprise. I have neither the skill nor the expertise to attempt such a search. I intend to work on this translation, most likely all night, and await good news with the rest of you."

Cassady stood, steadying the Moog. "They'll find him."

T'Phol nodded. "I have no doubt. You can go eat now. I will be good." She put the earphones on her head and touched a button. Cassady left, quietly pulling the door shut behind him.

T'Phol waited a moment before slipping off the headphones. She donned a second thermal shirt from her bag, pulling on a sweater over both and stuffed the snacks in a small bag along with a couple of tri-ox hypos she had appropriated from Chapel's kit and a few magnisite-nitron tabs and emergency blankets from the cold weather kit. She quickly started the program she designed for the Moog, adjusted the volume, and shouldered Uhura's tricorder.. Pulling on her coat and gloves, she opened the door an inch, peering through cautiously. Their rooms were deserted. She said a silent apology to Uhura and Cassady for her deceit as she pulled her door shut behind her. In a moment she was outside, skirting close to the building. She could see the SAR teams' lights in the distance. She tried to stay in the shadows as she worked her way across the field to the roadway outside the perimeter gate. If she recalled, it was fairly level for a while before it passed into rougher terrain further from the compound. She set off at an easy lope, disappearing into the night.


	39. Chapter 39

She was old.

She had never given a lot of thought to the concept of aging, beyond acknowledging the passage of time as inevitable and right, a gift of the One. For her, time was not limited by its singular pace. If she imagined time as a river, the measure of it was not contained in the flowing water, but rather in the stones beneath the surface. It was not the stream of passing days and orbits, but the markers of epoch that defined a life.

As Eldest, she was the caretaker of the Tribal Song, teaching bits of the score daily, adding to the story as living required. The Song was mostly filled with a comforting sameness, the greys of clouds and the sounds of rain, scents borne on the winds, patterns of the glowing Ohmefrai, the occasional firelights, the comfort of the den, the offerings of new life and life departed, the essence of their world.

That essence, everything the Tribe had ever known and what they were, was recorded in what she pictured as a river bed. Understanding was a personal experience,with a unique and distinct manifestation to every Eye. Eldest before her thought of it as leaves on the forest floor. Third Son saw the image of rain falling and splashing, forming puddles. That mosaic, however it was perceived, contained the sum of Tribal Memory, going back generations before her time. Sometimes the past shone bright and vivid through crystal water. Sometimes the past was separated from the present by mud and silt, not viewable but still solid in its existence. Often Vision was like looking through turbulent eddies, it wavered, steadied for a moment of clarity, then faded.

Her river bed contained many pebbles. Some had been placed by her, holding parts of her own story and the Tribe as she knew. Other stones were older, some truly ancient. Over her long life she had examined many of those, seeing the past through other Eyes, living in memories that were not her own, shared through the Ihrid-Ohmefrai, passing them down to the Tribe through the Great Song.

Some memories she did not sing. She never sang of the horror of the first Salortog. She never sang of the Endilinti. Perhaps the desire to shield the Tribe was misguided wisdom and her silence had been a mistake.

Great Father was the first to enter the mind of a Salortog. It was Great Father who predicted their return and sang of the Endilinti, adding to the Tribal Song before his voice was stilled and he passed into the One. This she held in her own memory without needing Ihrid-Ohmefrai.

She was little more than a fledgeling when the Salortog fled the world initially, leaving their dens standing closed and silent. Most of their places were eventually emptied by other outsiders who did not try to stay. The wind hissed through abandoned stones and rain washed away the scent until none remained and the ruins faded into their land, becoming, for most of the Tribe, unimportant remnants left by odd visitors from a distant past.

Never great in number, the Tribe had slowly dwindled and Vision waned. There remained few with the Eye, among them only she, Third Son, Darkeye, and Halaba could far-see. Fledgling showed early talent, but he was little more than a baby, far from being able to See at will.

Third Son was perhaps the most powerful Eye the Tribe had ever known, living memories fully, his Vision bright. By nature a dreamer, he often delved in the very oldest Song. He had touched Doktor's mind before he came to the world, convinced that the Salortog was the foretold Endilinti.

Eldest Mother was not at all certain. As pragmatic as Third Son was visionary, her world was filled with question and doubt. The quiet years since the departure of the Salortog had lulled her into contentment and a sense of security, until Third Son discovered the Song of Endilinti during his questing. She recalled Great Father's final song with clarity, remembering the metal and physical strain he was under. All the Tribe had suffered, he, as their leader, more than the others. The Endilinti, she felt, was a dream figure constructed from a tortured mind preceding its journey into the One, an outcry formed by a tormented and pained essence reaching for conclusive resolution and peace. She tried to convey this to Third Son, but he was enamoured of prophecy, waiting for the Endilinti, searching eagerly through his Eye while her disquiet renewed in measure.

She now realized that her life would be bound on both ends by the creatures who came from outside. The Salortog had returned, whether ordained or coincidence, and now Doktor was here, Endilinti or no.

That was not a comforting thought. Eldest Mother smoothed her mantle and stretched, stepping down from her perch. It was almost nightfall. After visiting the toilet and bathing, she took a place in the atrium beside the spring-fed pool. Almost immediately several Daughters approached, hoping for a song. Although mentally weary, she had never turned away any of the Tribe when asked for song. She greeted them and commenced the well-known story of the first dwellers building the den. They listened quietly until she finished, then returned to their previous activities. She became aware of another set of eyes still intent on her, a presence she could feel at the edge of her mind. She sent a welcome through the tenuous connection that was not quite a link. Fledgling stepped from behind a supporting trunk and hobbled to her, happily pushing just under the shelter of her wing, nestling close as a hatchling would do. She touched her beak to his in greeting, privately warmed and amused by his affection and youthful exuberance.

"Is the way of Tribe to hide from sight or watch in secret, Fledgling?" Eldest Mother knew she failed at sounding stern. Her kind was long-lived and the time between hatchings was long. Fledgling was youngest, his uncommonly bright spirit was protected and nurtured by the others as he slowly matured.

He dipped his head, accepting the gentle rebuke, then met her gaze with too much excitement to be contrite. "I ask pardon, Mother. You felt my link?"

"You are improving, yes. And you heard my call." She preened his crown, sensing his satisfaction mixed with impatience. "You are yet young. The Eye within you will grow in its time."

"Time is slow."

"The days and nights pass at the same pace for the One. Our perception does nothing to alter the way of being."

"Father will not sing of Endilinti to me. Will you?"

She stopped grooming, startled. His eyes met hers, pupils constricting. She could see their color was beginning to change from fledgling to juvenile, the deeper reds already hinting of the adult Eye that was to come. Eldest felt a deep aching sadness, understanding of a sudden the concept of being old, of _feeling_ old.

Fledgling felt her distress and pressed close, hiding his face in her breast. After a moment, Mother nudged him gently, and he looked up, uncertain and frightened. She trilled a nursery song of comfort and love before she spoke.

"How do you know of Endilinti, my Tenionifi?"

Hearing his nest name soothed Fledgling, as Mother knew it would.

He tilted his head. "I am not certain." He paused. "It is important to Father."

"Did he speak of this?"

"No. I tried to See on his Path. I could not." Fledgling's eyes grew far away. "The moving shadows hold my own, but the way is not clear." His voice held a timbre she had never heard from him.

Mother kept her visage quiet, although her heartbeat quickened in her chest. Fledgling was young, this was far too soon. "Your Path lies in shadow?"

"And at the edge of light. My Path is yet hidden, but I must be ready when He calls."

Mother's mouth felt dry. She swallowed before she could speak. "Who will call for you?"

His eyes were glassy and dark as he replied in the eerie voice. "The Endilinti."

A moment passed before he shook, and seemed to return to himself, the familiar Fledgling she knew. "I cannot See yet, Mother," he said mournfully.

"You will in time," she repeated as if the words were a mantra or a curse. She drew him closer underneath her wing, a protective gesture that seemed futile, but she had nothing else to offer. She trilled softly until he slept.


	40. Chapter 40

Although Site Four was farther from the main compound, the road was smoother overall than the route to Site Three and the trip time was not proportionally as long. The crawler, piloted by Eaggla, had passed into the magnesite area some time back and was about ten minutes away from the chosen disembarkation point just outside the facility. Kirk and the security team spent most of that transit time reviewing the site layout and formulating their response to various scenarios that might unfold during the capture.

Site Four was comprised of three structures surrounded by a perimeter fence, and two other buildings that lay beyond, one within three hundred meters and the other twice that distance. The site crew was all Andorian, six of them including the fake Vartheb and Kelan. According to Eaggla, after dark everyone would almost certainly be in the building used as both office and lodging, and not only because of the cold. The nocturnal, carnivorous, hyena-like species frequented the area. For that reason, all sites had a hand phaser, usually kept in the office.

They had finished the briefing and the security team was making final last minute checks of their equipment. Giotto moved to the seat behind the driver and peered into the arc illuminated by the vehicle's headlights. He was uneasy, his experience and intuition had been wary of Aminta from the beginning, and although he was not given to self-reproach, he could not help running the what-ifs through his head repeatedly. He was joined by Kirk who took the empty seat beside him.

"Playing the blame game, Commander?"

Giotto turned to look at his captain. "Not exactly, but in retrospect it was a poor decision leaving him alone, and I knew it. I should have made him listen."

"His decision. You could not have stopped him if he was determined to seek the creatures."

Giotto shook his head. "With all respect, Sir, I agree with T'Phol. I don't believe he voluntarily left the compound. He knows as well as any of us the danger involved. And he left his communicator. Going without a phaser I could believe, but not without his communicator."

Kirk's regard was focused. "What do you think happened?"

Giotto took a deep breath. "He could have been taken."

"Taken? Taken where? By whom? There are only a handful of people on the planet. Why would they want Bones?"

"I don't know. Possibly because of the birds."

"The birds? I don't understand."

Giotto shook his head, lowering his voice. "Neither do I. There's a lot going on here I don't understand. I do not trust anyone on this planet. Nothing feels right, there are secrets everywhere. Including whatever Doctor McCoy may have been keeping to himself. Nurse Chapel was convinced he knew more than he admitted about the birds." He hesitated a moment. "He seems to be able to communicate with them, at least on a limited basis."

Kirk frowned. "I asked him about that communication earlier. Maybe I should have pushed harder for answers."

The crawler slowed to a stop and Eaggla turned to Kirk.

"This is your drop off spot, Captain. We are just outside the turn that leads to the perimeter. The gate is about six hundred meters past that line of trees."

"Thank you. I want you to wait here. I'll contact you when we're ready for the crawler. What is your comm frequency?"

Kirk input the numbers into his communicator while Freeman handed out the night vision goggles and they disembarked. Through the goggles, the night transformed into an eerie scape in shades of green and brown with details made apparent that would have been hidden under the visible spectrum even in daylight. They took a minute to adjust to the new vision and the wealth of information it provided then they were on their way.

Their plan was to check the two outlying buildings first before entering the perimeter area. They came upon the first. It lay dark and closed, but not locked. They checked but found no one inside. The next building was the same, dark and empty. They approached the enclosed area, entering through the unlocked gate. Only one of the buildings was illuminated, the light fell through the windows and made faint shadows across the dirt.

Freeman consulted his tricorder and shook his head. "Magnesite interference," he whispered to Kirk. Kirk nodded, this was expected. The team split, silently taking positions around the building and both doors. Giotto and Freeman had both decided that Kirk should take a secondary position behind security, a plan that rankled Kirk, but he had reluctantly agreed. When the team was in position, it was Giotto who knocked on the door.

The door was opened by a tall Andorian whose eyes widened in surprise. Giotto stepped through immediately, followed by Freeman and the other guards, weapons at ready. Two Andorians seated at vid screen looked up in alarm, one rising from his chair which tipped over with a crash.

"Starfleet security, do not move. Hands above your head!" Giotto and Evans covered while Freeman and the other guards swept into the bunk area, returning with a bewildered and sleepy looking Andorian who was obviously older than the others.

"All clear, Captain," Freeman reported. "This is everyone."

"What is the meaning of this assault?" the tall one demanded in heavily accented Standard, antennae twitching and face a dusky blue with agitation. "Are you insane? Who are you? What do you want?"

Kirk stepped forward. "I am Captain James T. Kirk of the Starship Enterprise. We have a Federation warrant for the arrest of the individuals posing as scientists Kelan and Vartheb of Andoria. Where are they?"

"The four of us are all who are here. There are no others."

"Where did they go? And when? We have people all around this building. They cannot escape."

"No one has escaped."

Kirk's eyes narrowed as he surveyed the four. "We were told they had been assigned here, with this team, at this site. Are you saying they're no longer here _?_ "

"I am saying they were _never here_. Only we who stand before you. We have been here for weeks, only leaving for our physical examinations." He pointed at Giotto. "He saw us in the clinic."

Giotto nodded as he and Kirk exchanged confounded glances.

The older Andorian spoke. "You said 'posing'. I am acquainted with partners Kelan and Vartheb from another project several years ago. What has happened?"

"That is exactly what I want to know." Kirk looked at Freeman as he took out his communicator. "Verify their identification while I make some calls." He stepped into the dorm room, taking a quick look. The small space was filled by four beds, each with a desk and chair. One bed was unmade, probably where the older Andorian had been sleeping. There was no exit and nowhere to hide.

He made the first call to the ship. Scott reported the planet-wide scan was still in progress, no result with almost forty percent of the non-magnesite area covered. Kirk informed him of the newest mystery, urging Chekov to look sharp for all humanoid life forms.

Then he contacted Uhura who also had no good news to report. There was no sign of McCoy from the ground team, who had covered a square kilometer thoroughly, finding nothing except a pack of the native hyenas.

"Unfortunately we have a dead end here, too. If the Andorians are telling the truth, and I believe they are, the fake Kelan and Vartheb were never here."

"Should I inform Jasso or Arnette?" Uhura asked.

"No. I think I'll wait until we return to the compound. I want to see their reaction. One or both may already know, which brings up a whole other set of uncomfortable questions. Be careful and keep me informed. Kirk out."

He called Eaggla on the special frequency before returning to the others. The rest of the security team had come inside and the room was crowded. At his questioning look, Freeman nodded. "These four check out, Captain. They are who they claim to be."

"I have some questions," Kirk said. "Which one of you is in charge?"

The four Andorians looked at each other. "We do not have an order," said the tall one, but Kravestare is in charge of filing reports." He indicated the older one.

Kirk turned to Kravestare. "Were you informed that Kelan and Vartheb would be arriving?"

"Arnette informed me some time back that the FSB might be sending a small contingent. Days ago, Jasso called us in for physicals. I had a short meeting with him while we were in the compound. He did not speak of additional personnel beyond your ship's party."

"What about Arnette? Did you speak with her?"

"I did not. We were at the compound less than five hours. I was busied with replenishing our supplies."

"You said you knew Kelan and Vartheb?"

"I worked with them at the Science Academy on Meezan IV. They are bondmates, dedicated to their research."

"Their bodies were found on Vulcan a few hours ago. Murdered."

Kravestare's antennae drooped. "A great loss. And their murderers are here on Aminta?"

"Do you know their specialties?"

"Archaeogenetics, palynology. Isotope analysis. Recently Vartheb has published in neuro-biology."

"Any idea why someone would want to assume their identities and come here?"

"None at all." He shook his head. "Look around you, Captain. Outside of academia, there is nothing of value here. No precious stones, no hidden treasure. No priceless artifacts. Only a cold and weary planet with a few odd scientists and researchers. Nothing anyone would want."

"Wrong," Kirk said. " _Someone_ wants _something_. Badly enough to kill."


	41. Chapter 41

T'Phol's progress had slowed considerably as the road began to climb and the smooth surface gave way to buckles and creases. Still the trip to Site Three on foot would take less than the hour it had taken in the crawler. Her eye physiology was Vulcan, the retinal mosaic containing more structures, the rhodopsin sensitive to a wider spectrum than that of a Human. She could see enough to navigate the uneven road surface, and though she was no athlete, she was nimble and sure footed. A fine mist hung in the cold air, she could feel the weight of moisture on her lashes as she moved forward. In the quiet, she heard only her own pulse and the sound she made in passing.

She had picked up a suitably sized hiking stick while still in the wooded area and was finding it useful as she scrambled up a particularly rough patch, pausing at the top for a moment. The evergreens framed the lower lying area in black, but she could discern the glow reflecting from the compound lights onto the low clouds. To her left, the rocky hills rose above the road, dotted with prickly shrubs and tenacious vines. The right looked out over a plain pockmarked with small pools and scattered with faint patches of bioluminescence, whether plant or animal she did not know. That view was somehow unsettling, she turned her eyes back to the road ahead. She pressed ahead for a few minutes then stopped, senses alert. Straining to hear, her eyes swept across both sides of the road. She saw nothing, but remembered Chapel mentioning there were dangerous predators on Aminta other than the birds. After a minute of silence, she continued ahead, stopping to listen between every few steps. Soon she was certain she could hear movement somewhere on the rocky hillside above, and on the road behind her. She realized she was being stalked and she had no weapon other than the stick which she gripped firmly. She looked around, but there were no trees she could climb, no handy cave in which to hide or mount a defense. She positioned herself with a rock face at her back and a thorny shrub flanking her left, picked up a good sized rock, peered into the darkness, and listened.

She heard a soft yip or two, soon she could see their dark shapes emerge from the deeper darkness. She counted five, but had no idea how many might be out of sight. They were not as large as her imagination and fear made them, about the size of a Border Collie on Earth, but with longer legs and sharp fangs. They were closing in slowly, she could hear the huff huff of their breathing as they approached, along with some sort of low hum just at the edge of hearing. The hyenas advanced until they were within six meters, growling almost inaudibly, hackles rising as the hum grew. T'Phol grasped the rock, adjusting her grip and suddenly threw hard at the creature in the lead. She heard a crack as the rock made contact and the creature let out a screaming yelp as it hit the ground. She quickly threw another which missed its intended target, but rather than scatter, they began moving in. She picked up another rock, hefting the stick in her other hand. The growling was in the open, low and ominous, their eyes gleamed yellow as they got closer. Reflected light, T'Phol realized as the humming grew louder. She threw the rock as the first one jumped, then swung her stick like a bat, making solid contact with it as another seized her arm. She drew back the stick, but couldn't get an angle to strike again.

"This is not how it ends!" she screamed, gouging at a yellow eye as she smelled the fetid breath in her face. She lost her balance, hitting the ground hard, losing her breath. She kicked hard at the animal on top of her, her gloved hands around its throat holding the fangs at bay. Her arms trembled with the effort and she realized her vision was growing dark and her head was humming loudly, then everything seemed to go silent.

The night was sliced by bright blinding light, again, and a third time. She felt a weight on her chest and struggled to breathe. Then the burden was off and she gulped air in great droughts. She tried to sit, but a hand pushed her back down.

"Let me check you for injury. Did you hit your head?" She squinted as a light shone in her face, her hood was pushed back, and her head was turned to each side.

"I do not think so," T'Phol gasped.

"No blood anyway. Here, see if you can sit up."

She sat, leaning against the rock, catching her breath while Peggy examined her neck and then peeled back the torn layers of her coat and shirt sleeves where the creature had latched onto her arm.

"Do you think you can stand now? We need to get out of the cold and attend to your wounds. And," he added, "these things are usually in bigger packs. There may be more nearby." He looked at the dead animal he had kicked off T'Phol. Its lips were drawn back in a snarl, teeth gleaming in the meager illumination from his flashlight, the last expression it would ever have.

T'Phol nodded. Peggy got to his feet with some effort and offered his hand, but she managed to stand without assistance. She quickly found her ankle was tender, but she was able to hobble to his travel pod, glad to climb in and shut the door. She leaned back in the seat as he climbed in and started the vehicle. He turned to look at her.

"You were heading my way."

"Yes."

He nodded and turned the pod back toward Site Three

* * *

They entered the warmth of Peggy's cabin. T'Phol sank into a chair, closing her eyes and forcing her muscles to relax. Peggy removed his gloves and hung his coat before turning to her.

"Take off your coat, my dear, and let's have a look at that arm."

She complied, laying the tricorder on the table, slipping out of the coat and both long-sleeved shirts, leaving only her t-shirt. There was a large, ugly bruise in shades of green, with a broken line of skin forming a V around her upper arm. Despite the warmth of the room, she shivered. Peggy fetched a first aid kit and began cleaning the wound, applying an antibiotic and a light bandage. He stepped into the back room, carrying her coat and shirts and the kit, returning in a few moments with two cups of tea, in mugs rather than dainty porcelain, and a thick shirt. He set the cups on the table and offered T'Phol the shirt. She took it gratefully. Although the sleeves were too short, it fit well enough and she picked up her tea, curving her cold fingers around the welcome heat. Peggy took the chair across from her, studying her intently.

"Well," he said suddenly, "you are incredibly lucky to be alive. That was foolish, leaving the compound at night, alone,unarmed, and on foot. Or perhaps you make a habit of running away?"

"Thank you for rescuing me. I failed to consider predators until it was too late." T'Phol was relieved the shakiness she felt inside did not show in her voice.

"You are quite welcome. It is fortunate I had a phaser with me." He almost smiled. "You made a fair accounting for yourself, you managed to incapacitate one of them. Not a small feat for a musician unaccustomed to combat. Of course, the others would have killed you. Your friends would have found nothing but gnawed bones." His humor disappeared. "That is, after they noticed you were missing and started a search. You left the compound in secrecy. You were on your way to see me."

"Apparently you were headed to the compound yourself."

"Tell me what happened."

Peggy listened without comment until T'Phol finished. "Why would your doctor go looking for the bird creatures? Scientific interest? Feather collecting? Why is everyone assuming that's where he went?" He leaned forward. "There is more to this, as I said before. So you don't believe he went to find birds? Where is he?"

"I do not know. He would never have left unless he thought a patient needed him."

"Do you think he's somewhere treating a patient?"

"No. He would have his communicator and be in contact with the team. But someone could have lured him away with such a falsehood. He is a doctor above all else."

Peggy got up, taking their empty cups. He returned in a few minutes with more tea and a small bag which was closed with a drawstring. He handed her a cup and put the bag on the desk and sat with his own cup. His head tilted as he looked at her. The close scrutiny made her faintly uneasy. She looked away, sipping her tea to hide her discomfort and found herself stifling an unexpected yawn.

Peggy noticed and smiled. "Your Vulcan version of adrenalin is wearing off. Why would someone want to lure Doctor McCoy away?"

T'Phol looked at his face, his enigmatic half smile. She had been prepared to tell him everything about Leonard's interaction with the birds, including the dreams. Instead she said, "I do not know."

"The real question is what does he know? How did he get that recording? I would like to hear it again."

"I do not have the Moog."

Peggy opened the drawstring bag, extracting a computer chip. He spoke softly, but firmly as if he had come to a hard decision.

"I think you will find this interesting." He plugged the tape into the terminal on his desk.

For a moment there was a static hum, then an uncomfortable screech and a few frantic words, followed by sounds that were undoubtedly birdsong, but like none she had previously heard. Multiple voices were singing in unison, the timbre strident, discordant, powerful. She wanted to cover her ears to make it stop. It went on for a scant minute before fading into carrier wave noise. When it finished, Peggy reached out and hit the eject button. He held the tape with two fingers, spinning it slowly. T'Phol watched it turn around, going in and out of focus.

"What is that? she asked. Her voice felt rusty, unused.

"That recording was recovered from an Orion spaceship wreckage site three hundred kilometers from here. As far as I am aware, this fragment is the only auditory evidence of its kind. No one else on Aminta is aware of its existence. I have spent quite a bit of time thinking about that tape, attempting a translation, pondering the source, weighing the possibilities. You asked me what happened here two thousand years ago." He tapped his forefinger against the disc. "I think _this_ happened. I think Doctor McCoy knows something about it. Would you care to discuss it?"

T'Phol blinked, willing her eyes and brain to focus. She realized she was in trouble.

"I do not know anything about it." The words slurred, her tongue felt swollen in her mouth as the room spun about her.

"Perhaps it will come to you later," Peggy said softly as her eyes rolled in her head and she slumped in the chair.

A figure emerged from the back room. "Took you long enough," he grumbled.

Peggy shrugged. "I underestimated the amount it would take to put her under. Vulcan physiology is tough. You'll have to carry her, And someone needs to clean up the mess in the road just after the rise."

He grunted as he lifted T'Phol and hung her over his shoulders in a dead man carry. Peggy followed him out, pausing to grab her clothing. She was dumped unceremoniously in the back of the pod. It was quick work to tie her hands and feet, but Peggy stopped him from gagging her.

"I have no idea how the drugs will affect her. She may vomit when she comes to and aspirate. We want her alive and unharmed." Peggy threw her coat and shirts in, and the other covered it all with a tarp. He watched as the pod climbed the hill without lights, and silently set toward its destination. When it was out of sight, he went back inside, washed the dishes and tidied. The tape went back into its pouch and into the hiding place where it was kept. He sat with the tricorder, opened a link and downloaded its contents onto his computer. Then he disassembled the tricorder and fed the pieces one at a time into the garbage incinerator, followed by the first aid kit and finally T'Phol's bag and its contents. He watched until the light flashed to indicate the job was complete.

He stood staring long after the light went out, feeling as empty as the disposal.


	42. Chapter 42

He heard someone moaning as if in pain. He attempted to get up, ready to help, but was overcome with waves of nausea and vertigo. The moaning continued. It took him a minute to realize he was the source. He closed his mouth tightly, biting his bottom lip and the moaning stopped.

The rush of vertigo lessened, and he slowly opened one eye. The view did not change from complete darkness. For a moment he thought he might be blind, but as he listened he could hear a slow drip of liquid falling into a puddle and the accompanying echo. Not blind, he thought, he must be in a cave. Relieved that he was not sightless, he began to take stock of his physical condition. Aside from the disorientation and nausea, he had a tremendous headache, and he was cold. He was lying on his side on a hard surface. His shoulders and arms ached fiercely. He tried to move them and found he could not. His hands were bound behind his back. His legs and feet were also tied. He shifted his position a bit in an effort to lessen the pressure on his arms, in the process discovering an extremely sore area on his left parietal bone. He waited again for the nausea to subside, while some perverse part of his brain cataloged symptoms of concussion and traumatic brain injury.

He tried to work his way backward through his memory to recall the sequence of events that led to his current condition. Judging from the awful metallic taste in his mouth and the general fuzziness of his thinking process, he must have been given some sort of strong tranquilizer in addition to the blow to his skull. He could remember neither, so he listened in the darkness to the plop of the water, counting the seconds between drips, which turned out to be eighteen, although he was sure Spock would say it was seventeen point six two four.

He lost consciousness again. When he came to the second time, he was shivering, his teeth chattering. 'Stage one mild hypothermia with a core temperature still above thirty-two degrees,' the helpful doctor inside cheerfully informed him. "At stage two, the shivering will stop.'

"Shut up," McCoy growled. He was not sure if he had spoken aloud, it seemed the silence was all prevailing and he imagined his words falling heavily from his mouth and being sucked into nothingness. The vivid illusion frightened him a little; truth was he hated caves and being underground, and was fighting to keep his thoughts away from the darkness on Minara II where he had been held captive and tortured. There he had Jim and Spock with him. Whatever he was facing here, it appeared he would be doing it alone.

He drifted in and out of awareness for some time. When he was lucid, he listened to the water, still dripping at its seventeen-point-whatever-second interval, the only external noise he could hear. The sounds his body made were amplified, his respiration seemed thunderous, borborygmi caused by peristalsis in his digestive system liquidly rumbled, and when he opened his eyes, the orbital sockets creaked. And he was cold.

Fortunately he was wearing his coat, although he could not remember when he put it on. 'Traumatic retrograde amnesia,' said the Internal Doctor. McCoy said nothing. Through a great deal of painful trial and error, he managed to hitch around and maneuver himself into a slightly less uncomfortable position. He began systematically moving his arms and legs to relieve the pain and try to generate some muscle heat, putting all his effort into moving his limbs as far as he could against the restraints. Soon an old rock and roll song sprang unbidden in his head, and he worked in its rhythm.

'That's the sound of the men, working on the chain ga-a-ang.

That's the sound of the men, working on the chain-gang.

All day long they're singing.

Hooh. Aah.

Hooh. Aah.'

He couldn't remember all the lyrics, so those lines played in a loop as he flexed and extended, flexed and extended. Internal Doctor joined the chant at some point.

'Triceps brachi.'

'Hooh.'

'Anconeus.'

'Aah.'

'Biceps brachi.'

'Hooh.'

'Brachialis.'

'Aah.'

'Brachioradialis.'

"Are you planning to recite all six hundred and fifty?"

'Eight forty if we count the sub-groups.'

"You smug bastard."

'We might have time for the origins and insertions, too.'

"Christ."

'We must have had a Tri-ox injection,' mused Internal Doctor. 'Surely it's been almost four hours.'

That started an unwelcome chain of thought. He had lost track of time and had little idea how long he had been there. Time enough for the darkness to weigh heavily on his psyche, as evidenced by his little mind game, an attempt to distract himself from a grim reality. He was less concerned about possible pulmonary complications at the moment, because he was more worried how long he could keep his wits about him and ward off going 'bat-shit crazy', a Grandma Lydie term he used to find humorous. Presently it didn't seem so funny..

Years earlier, when he was in medical school, he had entered a sensory deprivation tank, floating in total darkness and silence in a body temperature bath of magnesium sulfate. The experience was supposed to relax and rejuvenate, enhance mental function, connect with the inner self, smooth the skin, whatever. He lasted less than fifteen minutes before he emerged from the pod shaken and panicked. If not for the attendants, he probably would have run naked into the street. He supposed his inner self didn't want to make a connection. For weeks after the episode, he slept with a night light. The experience still felt fresh, still provoked a visceral reaction as if it had happened yesterday rather than years before.

'At least the brain pod was warm.'

McCoy huffed and resumed his exercise, helping stave off the chill and giving him something to do other than contemplate the darkness. For a while he worked his wrists against the strong plastic zip tie binding, past the point of bringing blood, but the restraint had been applied too snugly to wiggle his hands free, even when lubricated.

He could not dredge up any memory of being captured, but he could remember most of the morning. He recalled T'Phol asking to stay with him. He was now doubly glad he sent her with the others on the trip. He finished the physicals later in the morning, filed reports, cleaned and tidied the clinic. His plan had been to return to quarters and rest, maybe study the information from the biological reports on the talon sample, but something happened on his way to their area. He could recall a feeling of urgency, but the actual event still eluded him.

He stopped his movements suddenly, senses hyper-alert. He heard voices, not Internal Doctor, but someone else, a whispering echo off the cave walls. He wasn't sure if his eyes were already open or if he opened them, but after a moment he could see a faint wavering light reflecting in the distance. As it drew closer, he could distinguish at least two speakers, speaking guttural Standard. His heart hammered in his chest. These people might be his captors, but maybe they would take him to another location.. He would take his chances with unknown, cruel kidnappers over the certainty of the cold dark any time. The light rounded a corner and he closed his eyes, feigning unconsciousness, hoping he could learn something useful if they talked unguarded. He saw the light red through his lids as it shone on his face.

"He's still out," followed by a grunt that sounded impatient. "You'll have to carry him."

The second voice laughed. "I think not. We wake him. The slug can walk."

McCoy felt the hard toe of a boot in his side. When he didn't react, he was nudged harder, then kicked with enough force to roll him over. He couldn't stop the groan of pain that escaped. He opened his eyes, squinting into the light, blinding after the darkness.

"There you are. Stand."

"I can't," he answered, truthfully.

"Gah. Flimsy Humans." His attacker reached down, hauling him to his feet in one movement. McCoy gasped, he thought his shoulders would be pulled from their sockets. His knees immediately buckled and he fell. He was saved from real injury by his captor's grasp, his fall was broken and he didn't hit the stone floor as hard as he might have. His head swam, for a minute he thought he would pass out again. He hung on to consciousness as Voice Two cursed above him. Then he heard the unmistakeable sound of a knife being unsheathed. He hoped the aim was true and death would come immediately. He steeled himself for the blow.

Instead the knife sliced through his restraints, first his legs, then his hands. His arms fell into position at his sides, a delicious dose of pain and relief. His hands started to tingle, he welcomed the pins and needles, before they had been numb.

"Get up."

McCoy struggled to his feet and stood, swaying, hoping he could stay upright and avoid vomiting on his captors' shoes.

"Let's go."

Somehow he forced his legs to function and he began walking between the two figures. He stumbled twice but didn't fall. The guard on his right kept a firm hold on his upper arm. Between his aching head and the unsteady flashlight, he couldn't tell much about his surroundings or his captors. They made a couple of turns and he began to see daylight seeping into the dark. Another turn and he could see through to the outside world. The opening was small, they had to duck to pass through. McCoy's eyes watered with the sudden change in brightness. The light was not yet fading into twilight. He wondered if it was the same day.

Then he saw his captors clearly, bright green skin identifing one as Orion, a species he had seldom encountered. The other was unmistakably Klingon.

McCoy's mind reeled at the implication of an Orion-Klingon alliance even as he wondered why such a partnership would manifest itself on Aminta. Certainly it was not to facilitate scholarly research on extinct dialects or to catalog the spread of starfaring races centuries ago.

The Orion kept his arm in a strong grip as he activated a communication device, speaking in Orion instead of Standard. It was a short conversation on both ends. The Klingon looked at McCoy, leaning closer until they were almost nose to nose. "You shall soon see who wants you alive...For the present." He grinned through a row of jagged teeth. McCoy did not move. The Klingon laughed, spraying fine spittle. "Do you fear death, Starfleet man? Humans are weak, cowards. Perhaps you will meet our mind-sifter before it's over." His voice dropped to a low growl. "Are you afraid of me, Human?" He reached with a gloved hand and drew a leisurely finger across McCoy's cheek. McCoy drew back fractionally and the Klingon seized him around the throat in a sudden and vicious movement.

"Admit you're afraid," he hissed. "Plead for my mercy." When McCoy said nothing, his hand tightened. "I said beg!"

"You have bad breath," McCoy choked out.

The look of surprise and then rage on the Klingon's face was almost worth the punch to his celiac plexus. The hit wrenched him from the Orion's grasp and he dropped airlessly to the ground. The Klingon kicked ,wild in his anger, and the blow intended for his head landed on his shoulder instead. He saw the heavy boot draw back for another try, but the Orion moved between them, actually shoving the Klingon, who windmilled for balance.

"Enough of this, Uboq. Leave the Human alone. Dead, he is useless."

Uboq sneered. "I was not aware you are in charge, Ludedmi."

"Neither are you," the Orion replied, his voice low and dangerous. Uboq backed away, muttering. Ludedmi watched as McCoy, laying at his feet and still winded, tried to catch his breath.

McCoy fought through the diaphragmatic spasm, forcing air into starving lungs. He knew he needed a dose of Tri-ox, but didn't ask if either happened to have one in their pocket. He had partially recovered when Ludedmi reached down, hauling him to his feet. To his surprise, he was able to stand. His shoulder was painful as he held his left arm close to his body. Other than a dark glance that seemed to promise more to come, Uboq ignored him, and they waited in silence as McCoy wondered exactly what they were waiting for.

That question was answered by arrival of a vehicle. It came in silently, one minute it was not there and then it was. McCoy struggled with the impression of materialization from nowhere, and the illusion that it was invisible. As he stared, he could see the edges and form of a sleek vessel, so not invisible after all, nor was it like a cloaking device. It seemed the light waves hitting it were bent so that it reflected its surroundings, but not with the symmetry of a mirror. It settled on the ground and the door opened to reveal an Orion pilot. Ludedmi poked his back and he climbed inside where was room for six people. He was pushed to the back where he dropped thankfully into a seat.

The pilot swiveled to face them. "Apply restraints. You may need them." Then he turned back to a sophisticated cockpit. McCoy was no pilot, but he recognized warp capable configuration. He thought about how Scotty would appreciate seeing the ship as he fastened the seatbelt.

The front viewscreen wrapped around the front, offering a much better view than the Enterprise shuttlecraft. Takeoff was noiseless and vertical. They started forward slowly, then picked up speed. Soon they were skimming just feet above the treetops, following a river bed for some distance. Then the course veered toward a mountain range and into a valley, winding through the narrow passage between sheer cliff faces as G-forces pressed them this way and that in their seats. McCoy soon felt woozy, and his shoulder hurt where the restraint pressed on it. He white-knuckled the edge of his seat and swallowed his rising gorge for what seemed like an eternity. Finally the ship slowed, turning into a slot canyon. They passed into deep shadow as the canyon walls towered above them. In places the shuttle crept as it almost touched the walls on both sides. The space widened slightly, and the pilot set down without a quiver.

They disembarked onto level, sparkly, sandy, ground, a little more brown than grey. McCoy looked up. The rock faces reached far above, grey and obsidian. It was dim, almost dark on the ground, but the light was fading from the sky as day turned into twilight. He wondered if the canyon flooded and how often, or if some other force had shaped it. Ludedmi pushed him forward toward a fissure in the wall. He wondered if he would ever see daylight again. He took one final look at the sky, then stepped through the narrow slot and into the mountain..


	43. Chapter 43

**Finally, I'm back after a long wait! I want to thank anyone who might still be waiting for updates. I hope to post regular updates going forward until this story is complete. Thanks again for sticking around! Comments and/or complaints are welcome!**

The crawler ride back to the compound was grim, returning to base with only more questions and no fugitives in custody. Kirk snapped his communicator closed, scrubbing a hand across his face in frustration as check-ins with the Enterprise and planet-side team reported no sign of McCoy. Giotto and Freeman were in the seat across from him, studying a series of topographical and site maps and making notations. Kirk leaned forward, glancing at the area covered by the ground team, now ranging over a kilometer from the base. Giotto looked up at him, eyes bleak.

"You don't think he's out there," Kirk said abruptly. "I'm willing to entertain any theory you might have. But first, tell me more about the situation with the bird creatures."

Giotto relayed everything he could remember. Kirk listened silently as the security officer spoke, his telling concise and factual, almost devoid of personal inflection, an articulate and detailed report from a trained observer. Giotto finished, waiting.

Kirk turned the pieces over in his mind for a moment, perplexed and a little disturbed. His friend had always been reticent about his personal life, but never had that secretiveness manifested when duty was concerned. He recalled the doctor's certainty that the avain creatures were sentient moments after seeing one through a window. At the time, he thought it was a hunch; McCoy had them from time to time, and more often than not they were right. Over the years, Kirk had come to accept that insight as simply a part of who McCoy was. Now he wondered, could another force have been into play?

He returned his attention to Giotto. "So Chapel believes the birds are dangerous animals, and Uhura is questioning whether they have telepathic ability. McCoy couldn't or wouldn't say. What do you think? Was he withholding information? If so, what? And could these creatures be linked- somehow- to his disappearance?"

"Sir," Giotto took a deep breath. "He hasn't been quite himself since we arrived. He seemed," Giotto hesitated, "turned inward somehow, like he was wrestling with a problem he couldn't solve." He looked down briefly before meeting Kirk's eyes again. "If Doc was hiding something, he thought it had no bearing on this mission or the team's safety. He would never compromise any being in that way, much less one of his own crew," he added firmly.

"No one except himself, maybe. You were outside when he treated the creature. Did you see or feel anything that might suggest they were telepathic?"

"No, not at the time. Later, though, when he and T'Phol met Piasa in the woods, that seemed too coincidental to be random. Uhura thought Piasa sent a message to him. Maybe she's right. Or maybe he sent a call to Piasa without realizing. If he wasn't Human, I could believe he's an empath. T'Phol indicated she couldn't detect any communication attempt during her encounter." Giotto paused. "If McCoy has told anyone more, it would be T'Phol."

Kirk's eyes narrowed. "I intend to talk with Miss Grayson when we arrive at base. Earlier you put out the idea Bones could have been kidnapped. Thoughts?"

Giotto spread his hands. "I can't think of any reason he would have broken his word to stay inside other than a patient in need or his being forcibly removed. Cassady, I believe, questioned what was so intriguing here millenia ago. Perhaps that's still of interest to someone. Maybe someone thinks McCoy has information..."

"And one common denominator would be the birds."

"And the Andorian fugitives," put in Freeman. "Don't forget the fake Vartheb expressed some unkind sentiments about Doctor McCoy following the defkato incident. And they're still at large. They could be anywhere."

"Yes. On a planet that's over fifty percent sensor blind. They could be anywhere."

* * *

It was a few hours until planet dawn when the crawler pulled into the compound. Inside Uhura was still at the impromptu communication station, listening through her earpiece. Chapel was seated at a table, a cup of neglected tea untouched before her. Cassady was on a bench, leaning a shoulder against the wall almost dozing. He woke as they entered, and straightened.

"Any news?" Kirk asked.

Uhura removed her earpiece, shaking her head. "No, Sir. Nothing from SAR, and Enterprise reports almost eighty percent of the clear areas scanned. Nothing."

"Get Arnette and Jasso. I want to see them now." He glanced around. "Where is T'Phol?"

"In her quarters working with the Moog," Cassady answered.

Kirk turned to Freeman. "Give your men a break. You and Commander Giotto stay. I need your observational skills focused on those two. I have some hard questions, and I want answers."

Uhura spoke. "Captain, Arnette is on her way, but Jasso is not answering the comm."

Kirk jerked a thumb toward Cassady. "Go wake Jasso, tell him I want to see him now."

Cassady hurried down Long Hall toward Jasso's quarters, meeting Arnette on her way to the common area. She nodded but didn't speak. He arrived at Jasso's room. None of the doors had chimes or comm interface, so he knocked, softly at first, then harder. He called Jasso's name several times with no results. He tried the handle, but the door was locked. He made his way back up the hall, deciding to check Jasso's office before giving up. He knocked, and upon receiving no response he tried the knob. The door swung open.

Jasso was sprawled on the floor behind his desk. Cassady knelt beside him, feeling for a pulse. He flipped his communicator open.

"Captain Kirk? This is Cassady. Captain?"

"Kirk here," came the quick reply.

"Medical emergency, Sir, in Jasso's office. I- I think he's dead."

"We'll be right there."

Kirk sprung into a quick trot, Chapel on his heels with a medikit. The others followed the short distance to Jasso's office. Chapel moved in front, scanner in hand. She made a quick pass, studying the readout before looking up.

"Respiratory and circulatory failure, but he's not dead yet. We need to get him to sickbay immediately. Have Doctor Sanchez standing by with a crash cart."

Kirk opened his communicator, Scott answered and within a few seconds Chapel disappeared in the flurry of transporter sparkles with her patient. Kirk ordered a guard to accompany them before breaking contact. He looked at the others. Cassady appeared pale and shaken. Kirk spoke to him first, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"Good job, Mister Cassady. Your finding him quickly may have just saved his life."

Cassady swallowed. "Thank you, Sir."

Arnette appeared as cool and collected as ever. If she was upset, or even concerned, Kirk could detect no sign.

"I have some questions for you, Miss Arnette. But first we need to secure this room and lock down the compound. How many people are in the building now?"

Arnette did a quick calculation. "Minus your people and Jasso, there should be ten."

Kirk nodded at Freeman. "Break's over. Post guards at every entrance. Secure this room, bring down a forensics team."

Freeman moved to the side, already on his communicator. Kirk and the others returned to the common area. While Uhura checked her communication console Kirk turned to Cassady.

"Go ask Miss Grayson to join us. She can bring her Moog in here if needed."

Cassady nodded, heading for their quarters. T'Phol's door was closed, but he could hear the Moog playing softly. He knocked.

"T'Phol?" He knocked again, louder, feeling his stomach clenching into a knot when there was no answer. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door, staring into the empty room where the Moog played, unattended. Leaving the door wide, he checked the other rooms before opening his communicator.

Outside the rain was turning to snow.


	44. Chapter 44

T'Phol came to slowly as awareness seeped into her consciousness in stages. She heard voices murmuring in the background, but the words were garbled. Trying to understand was taxing, so she let her mind drift on some unknown plane, an empty and disquieting place with a sense of peril lurking ominously at the edge just beyond her reach.

She noted she was in some pain, and focused on the sensation, a concrete reality in the hazy landscape of her perception. Gradually her thoughts began to clear and she remembered being attacked on the road. Like the first to fall in a chain of dominoes, suddenly everything clicked back into her memory. She gasped and tried to open her eyes, but the lids were heavy, her vision blurred.

"Ah, you're coming around. Don't try to sit up yet. You've been unconscious quite a while."

T'Phol peered through swollen lids, making out a indistinct face hovering above her. She tried to speak, but her mouth felt like sandpaper and her tongue wouldn't cooperate. She felt a hand under her shoulders, lifting her head a bit, and a glass pressing against her lips.

"This is water, take a little sip."

The liquid bathed her mouth in welcome coolness. She would have gulped the entire glass, but it was removed after a few sips. She licked her lips as the hand lowered her head and withdrew. She blinked as the room began to come into focus.

The space had the nondescript look of a standard quick-build Federation Quonset hut. She could see a cot and a desk holding computer equipment. The floating face was attached to a Human male who appeared to be in his fifties, with short salt and pepper hair and a trimmed beard. The smile lines etched into his face did not look cruel.

She coughed, prompting the man to give her another drink. She tested her voice, finding she was able to speak again.

"Where am I? Who are you?"

"My name is Vincent Thompson. You are in a secret installation on Aminta. You are safe, no one here will harm you."

"Safe? As a hostage?" Anger coursed through T'Phol and she struggled to rise. Thompson reached to assist, but she jerked her arm away. He sat back, watching calmly as she managed to sit. She grimaced through dry and swollen lips, glaring at him, weakly. "I am going to vomit."

He handed her a waste basket, then wordlessly went to empty it when she was finished, returning with a glass of juice and some crackers and nutrition bars. He placed them on the desk beside her. She looked at them without touching.

"You had an adverse reaction to the drug you were given. I am sorry you are suffering. Eating may hasten your recovery."

"Are you working with Peggy? Where is he? He poisoned me."

Thompson frowned. "That was unfortunate. He did not intend to harm you."

"Why am I here? What do you want from me? Is Doctor McCoy here, too?"

Thompson held up a hand, almost smiling. "I will tell you what I can shortly. Please try to eat a little, it will help you feel better. I have a task I must finish." He turned to the computer. T'Phol briefly wondered if she could overpower him and escape. There were doors at both ends of the room. One was slightly ajar, leading to another room. She thought the other might open to the outside. She glanced around the room, considering objects that she might use as a weapon.

"Vince?" The door swung open, a large man filling the frame.

Thompson looked up from his screen. "Yeah, Mike?"

"There's a comm on the private channel you need to see."

Thompson rose from his seat. "Thanks. I'll go check it now."

Mike nodded, stepping into the room as Thompson left. He picked up a nutrition bar and unwrapped it, taking a bite as he leaned against the wall, regarding T'Phol closely. He shook his head. "You're awake finally. You were out for a long time, almost five hours. You've had a rough night."

"Yes. Being poisoned and kidnapped is not a pleasant experience."

"I'm sure it isn't." He gestured to the juice and crackers, still sitting untouched. "No one here wants to harm you. Your food is not tainted. You have my word."

"A promise from the mouth of a kidnapper would seem to be of dubious value."

Mike sighed. "Technically, I did not physically asport you, but I see your point."

"Then am I free to go?"

"I'm sorry. No."

Thompson stuck his head around the door. "Mike, a word, please."

The two men conferred for a moment just outside the door, their voices too low for T'Phol to make out any words, then Thompson returned to the room alone. He pulled the chair closer to her cot and sat, looking grave.

"I know you have questions, but unfolding events have severely limited my time. I am sorry you're here. Your presence creates a dilemma for my group. I realize this is a situation you didn't choose. Still, here we are."

T'Phol stared. "You were not involved in my abduction?"

Thompson harrumphed, a short humorless bark.

"No. This was all Peg Teal. He is undeniably brilliant, a little deranged. Abducting you was reckless and unlawful, and certainly not sanctioned by anyone here. I had no idea what he was doing until his Rigelian assistant showed up with you bound hand and foot and unconscious." His mouth thinned. "His motives are his own, but whatever he hoped to accomplish will come to naught. It's too bad, this fiasco will end his career."

"Our physician is also missing. Is Peggy responsible for that as well?"

Thompson's visage darkened. "No." He stood, stretching his shoulders, suddenly looking weary. "I am in the unenviable position of putting the fox in charge of the hen house."

"I do not understand."

"Events are beginning to unfold that require my team's attention. Teal has left Site Three and will be here in less than an hour." He paused. "I had some hard words with him earlier. He truly had no intention of making you ill, claims the drug he used was safe for Vulcans. At any rate, you will be able to talk to him at length. You and he will stay sequestered in this facility while my group is out."

T'Phol's eyes glittered. "That is unacceptable."

"Not an ideal solution, I agree. There is no time to return you to your Enterprise group. You will be as safe here as anywhere on the planet."

"What is happening on Aminta? And how are you connected?"

Thompson took a small wallet from his pocket, opening it, holding it for her to view. Inside a holographic image stared back at her alongside a silver badge.

"Federation Intelligence Division. You are a spy?"

"An agent. When Teal arrives, he will be placed under house arrest. He knows this. As soon as possible, we will return you to the Enterprise. Until that time, you will stay here under FID protection. This is a secure facility."

"What about Doctor McCoy? You know where he is."

"I do not know his precise location, but I have a good idea who took him. I don't have even an educated guess _why_ he was taken. Our mission is classified, but Starfleet's involvement has set a chain of events into motion, I believe prematurely. This could be our break in this case after years of disappointment, getting close only to run into dead ends. This investigation encompasses a much wider scope than what is happening here on Aminta, although this planet seems to hold the key. These people are dangerous, they're playing a high stakes game and have nothing to lose." He looked sharply at T'Phol. "I don't understand what part a Starfleet surgeon could possibly play in this matter, or why Peg Teal was desperate enough to drug and abduct you, especially to bring you here. His plea of protective custody is ludicrous, and he knows it."

T'Phol almost winced, closing her eyes for a moment, her mind whirling. She opened them to find Thompson's unwavering attention focused on her, waiting, sensing the urgency behind his calm facade. She reached for the neglected drink, taking several swallows. Her hand trembled slightly as she replaced the glass carefully on the table, so she placed both hands on her knees, fingers slightly curved as if she was sitting at the piano. She took a deep breath, meeting his eyes evenly. He nodded.

"I do not know why this might be important, but the winged predators on this planet are sentient. One of them communicates with Doctor McCoy telepathically, and believes he has a foretold role in their society, one assigned two thousand years ago."

Thompson leaned forward. "Tell me more," he said quietly.

T'Phol squared her shoulders and began.


	45. Chapter 45

Inside the fissure, the space opened up into a cavern. As McCoy's eyes began to adjust to the dark, he could see faint light seeming to emanate from the walls, supplemented by a few lightsticks. The glow was enough to illuminate a rough stair hewn into the rock. Ludedmi pointed. "Up there," he said. "Step carefully, it is steep."

McCoy followed Uboq and they began to climb, Ludedmi bringing up the rear. It was narrow, but he had good balance and was not afraid of heights. Although thin, he was strong and fit, meeting Starfleet physical fitness requirements with ease. Still, he had to use his hands frequently and his breathing became more labored with the exertion. The steps extended up the rock face for less than fifteen meters, but he was exhausted and winded by the time he reached the small landing at the top. Uboq had turned around and was waiting, sneering as he climbed the last step. For a moment, McCoy thought the Klingon was going to push him off the edge, but he turned to the left and they entered through a narrow door.

The new chamber was brighter, and, to his relief, warmer. McCoy looked around, his eyes widening in surprise as he struggled to breathe. He had no idea where he had expected to find himself, but not in a state of the art lab hidden in a rock cave on that deserted planet. There were several tables and stations, all loaded with sophisticated equipment and computers. Under other circumstances, he would have been eager to explore such a well-equipped set up. In one corner he noticed a square box which was attached to electrodes connected to a cap like device. Somehow he knew it was a Klingon mind sifter. He could almost see the evil surrounding it. He suppressed a shudder and looked away.

Uboq laughed, pushing him toward a chair, then left through a second door at the rear of the room. McCoy concentrated on breathing, counting his racing pulse. He flexed his fingers, noticing his ring was tight. Hypoxia. Tachycardia. Headache. Peripheral edema. Internal Doctor silently tallied the symptoms of altitude sickness as McCoy took a careful look around the lab. While it contained the usual assortment of labware, beakers, graduated cylinders and the like, he doubted he would have the physical strength to use them as a weapon against Ludedmi. The Orion was bigger than him, tall, muscular, and moved with assured alertness.

Ludedmi studied McCoy for a minute. "You are in physical distress."

McCoy saw no reason to disagree. "It's the thin atmosphere."

Ludedmi crossed the room, unlocking a cabinet. He returned with McCoy's medical kit. "Does this contain medication for your condition?"

McCoy nodded, feverishly recalling what he knew about Orion physiology, wondering if his kit contained a sedative that would be quick-acting enough to knock Ludedmi out instantly. He reached for his kit, but Ludedmi shook his head, stepping back and opening the pouch himself. "Show me."

Evidently Ludedmi was not taking any chances. "There are three." He pointed out a hypo containing tri-ox, another with the tazocap, and finally the one containing the special anesthetic drug he compounded for Spock. Ludedmi carefully extracted them from the holder, laying them on the table next to McCoy.

"Administer the medication."

McCoy picked up the Tri-ox hypo, pushed up his sleeve, dialed the dose and injected it while Ludedmi watched. In a moment, he felt the the welcome rush of new oxygen as his hemoglobin responded and his pulse began to ease from its bounding. He picked up the other two together, shooting himself with the tazocap, then dialing a hefty dose of anesthetic, quickly weighing the options. Ludedmi was standing out of reach. Rushing him seemed out of the question, somehow he would have to get him to move closer. He decided to 'faint' and fall to the floor, hoping he would move within reach. He took a deep breath and tightened his grip on the hypo.

McCoy caught a movement in his peripheral vision, turning to see Uboq re-enter the room, and realized his slim chance had evaporated. Surprise sedation was a one time one person trick. He might remove Ludedmi from the equation, then Uboq would probably kill him. Ludedmi was watching him closely, waiting for him to finish. He aborted his plan for the time being, retracted the dose and pushed the hypo against his arm in a dry fire. The discharge sound was different, but he hoped the Orion wouldn't notice or understand the change.

"You will need this medication again?"

"Yes. At four hour intervals." McCoy heard the Klingon utter a derisive snort.

"Place them on the table."

McCoy did so, watching as they were returned to the kit and stowed back in the cabinet.

"Humans are weak creatures," Uboq said. "You can't defend yourself, can't even breathe without help. I cannot fathom what use you will serve here. But perhaps when they are done with you, I can teach you a thing or two." He grinned. "Do you think you can learn new tricks? With some persuasion? Yes?"

McCoy didn't reply, but he thought he heard a sigh of frustration or disapproval from Ludedmi. Dissension within the ranks could possibly work to his advantage, he thought, if he could somehow exploit those differences. The problem was either captor, presumably including those he hadn't yet seen, would surely just as soon see him dead as alive. He had no doubt that was the end plan at any rate, once they deemed his usefulness was finished. They certainly wouldn't be returning him to Starfleet with their gratitude. He wondered what they wanted from him, hoping he would find out soon. He was sore and his head and shoulder ached, although his breathing had greatly improved and his altitude sickness symptoms had abated. He realized he was almost uncomfortably warm.

"I need to take off my coat." He addressed Ludedmi, who nodded his consent. McCoy saw him looking at the dried blood on his wrists, but made no comment as he shrugged out of his coat, laying it on the table beside him.

Ludedmi gestured to Uboq. "Restrain him."

Uboq moved forward with a set of shackles, wide bands and chains. He roughly pulled off McCoy's boots and fastened cuffs just above his ankles. There was enough play between them to allow him to take shuffling steps. The leg and arm restraints were connected by a chain, and his hands were bound in front of him. Again, there was looseness that allowed him some movement. He dimly remembered seeing such devices in old movies, thinking them barbaric. The reality was worse than he imagined.

Ludedmi reached for a PADD, extending it toward him. "You are to examine this data."

When he didn't reach for the tablet, Uboq drew his knife, almost casually holding the point at McCoy's neck, barely touching. The Klingon smiled, leaning close. "It would be to your advantage to cooperate."

"No. My compliance would benefit _you_." The blade press harder as Uboq's face darkened with anger. He held still. "If you cut my throat, you still won't get what you want."

Uboq snarled and McCoy felt a trickle of blood dripping in a hot trail down his neck.

Ludedmi's arm shot across in a blur just inches in front of McCoy's face, and the knife flew clattering across the floor. Uboq transferred his attention to the Orion, enraged, as his hand reached for the disruptor hanging on his belt. Ludedmi was quicker, and the Klingon found himself staring into a drawn phaser. He froze, and neither spoke for a few seconds. Uboq stepped back, lowering his hands to his side.

"I can make him cooperate," Uboq said sullenly.

Ludedmi slowly returned his phaser to his holster, his eyes never leaving the Klingon. "You may get that chance," he said, "but not at this moment."

"How very wise of both of you."

McCoy recognized the whispery voice immediately as Vartheb moved from behind the door, phaser in hand. Evidently he had been watching the altercation, with plans to step in, McCoy thought. He wondered whose side would have received intervention.

Vartheb motioned toward the outside door where the three of them had a quick discussion in hushed voices. McCoy could not hear what was said, but Vartheb's body language and antennae waving seemed to indicate an excitement, one perhaps not shared by Ludedmi or Uboq, although the Klingon, still angered at being outdone and outdrawn, radiated mostly hostility toward everyone.

Vartheb sent the other two out, returning to McCoy alone. They eyed each other for a moment, then Vartheb crossed the room, taking something from the locked cabinet, then taking a seat at the closest table. He set McCoy's medical tricorder on the table.

"I am sure you recognize this, Doctor?"

"It's a medical tricorder."

" _Your_ tricorder."

"They're all similar."

"Yesss." His antennae pointed toward McCoy, as all his attention focused on the doctor. "All similar. None quite like this one, with this information." He opened the cover, his movements almost delicate, and hit the power switch. The screen glowed ready. Vartheb was evidently used to a Starfleet interface. He immediately brought up a file, looking at it closely, then turned the screen toward McCoy. "Tell me about this."

McCoy leaned forward. The screen showed the biologic signature from the talon he had removed from Little Birdie. He schooled his features in neutrality to hide his surprise.

He shrugged. "What do you want to know about it?"

Vartheb's antennae twitched in irritation. "Do not play foolish. I know this is genetic code, code from the flying creatures."

"Yes, but it's nothing unusual. Every living organism carries its own. This is simply a map, a blueprint for this particular creature."

Vartheb scrolled through more files, pausing again. "And this?"

McCoy glanced at the screen. It was the preliminary lab report on the defkato sample. His mind raced, hunting for the connection. "I'm sure you know what that is, too."

"Tell me anyway."

"That is a routine lab report on the substance you were inhaling while you were on board the Enterprise."

"What is your interest in these things?"

McCoy's brow lowered in a frown as he looked at Vartheb, a little perplexed by the cant of questioning. He though back to his own disquiet concerning the defkato, the feeling he had missed something. That disquiet was now a roar in his head.

"Of course we ran tests on the defkato. As a respiratory irritant, it posed a threat to our Human crew."

"And the other?"

"Routine data collecting upon discovering a new species."

"One new species among several. You have data on only one. There are others here on the planet. Yet you have compiled information on one single life form. Why not all? Of more significance, why this particular species? What is its importance to you? Or to Starfleet?"

"There is none, beyond our mission statement to discover new life."

"You are not being truthful, Doctor." Vartheb's antennae drooped a little.

"What is _your_ interest in the birds?"

McCoy was not expecting an answer, but Vartheb replied immediately.

"Until recently we had no concern in them." His antennae swiveled first as he nodded toward the PADD on the table, untouched since McCoy had declined to examine whatever data it contained. "You might find this intriguing. It may answer your inquiry. Or perhaps you will find new questions rather than answers."

McCoy slowly reached for the PADD, telling himself looking was not the same as capitulation. The chains on his arm restraints scraped across the table in a clanking dirge as he powered the tablet and began to read.


	46. Chapter 46

Third Son had a favorite perch, a high and lonely place atop a stony plateau, far away from his own den and those of the Salortog. A hardy growth of Ohmefrai covered a depression at the base of the bluff. At the top lay an outcropping of black rock surrounding a few sparse and weathered trees. A steady trickle emerged from a cleft near the summit, spilling over a small basin, then rushing down the cliff before joining a bigger stream on its journey to the restless sea. Splashing water was his conduit into Tribal Memory, his pathway to Vision. In this falling brook he had found the Song of Endilinti, and first touched the mind of Doktor. This place called to him when he wanted time and privacy, for Vision, or quiet thought, or when his spirit was restless.

He had taken wing at first light. The morning was reaching mid point by the time he landed, pausing to pluck a few strands of Ohmefrai to prepare for Vision before moving to a particular tree amid the stone circle, tall and straight, with a perfectly placed horizontal branch. He had perched there before, often enough that the bark wore grooves from his talons. He looked out over the terrain encompassing his familiar and serene world, a view that usually brought a feeling of rightness and contentment with his place in the One, but on that day he was troubled and uncertain, and his introspection turned to brooding even as he chewed the Ohmefrai, swallowing the bitter liquid.

He thought about his role among his people. Some degree of the Eye was universal among the Tribe, but the ability to far-see was not widespread. All could share a Vision through the Ihrid-Ohmefrai, but always aided by a Sightful Eye. For many cycles, that responsibility had fallen mostly to him. Although Eldest Mother could still guide, the effort to lead the entire group was tiring, and it took her longer to recover. Darkeye, whose Eye had been strong in the past, was failing, his Vision waning. One day, possibly soon, he would join the One, his song becoming part of the Essence. Halaba's Eye had never been strong, although she had some Vision for herself, she could not bring the Ihrid-Ohmefrai to life for the others without assistance.

The Tribe was aging. If the length of a life could be compared to one day, most were past the mid point, many were in or nearing twilight. He was in his prime, he imagined himself in his early afternoon, still hale and strong in both body and mind. Only a small handful of Sons and Daughters were before midday. And only one still in the morning.

Fledgling was the Tribe's youngest, much loved by all, but Third Son had always taken a lead in his nurturing. Tenionifi, as he had been called in the nest, was bright, always questioning, wanting to understand. He was quick to sing, fly, and from all indications, would develop his Eye early. And there was no doubt he had a Far-Seeing Eye, perhaps deeper than the Tribe had known before. Third Son had no recollection of a youngster coming into an Eye before Naming time, but Fledgling was certainly Seeing some things well before choosing his Call Name. He was not too surprised when Fledgling admitted he had been attempting to See in splashes and watery reflections, as Third Son did, but he was truly startled when the child asked him about Endilinti. Initially he wondered if Fledgling had indeed delved into Tribal Memory on his own, unguided and unassisted. At his age, such a feat would have been astounding, almost unbelievable.

Eldest Mother had approached him the previous evening, still unsettled by Fledgling's inquiry and the event she thought may have been a Vision. She questioned through their link, her concern and worry evident, wondering what and how the child knew of Endilinti. Third Son could not reassure her or himself and they remained without answers.

The Endilinti. The notion disturbed Eldest Mother. More than disturbing, he could sense a sort of fear and desperation almost foreign to the Tribe. Eldest was the only one remaining from the time of the first Salortog. He knew she had shared some of her memories into the Story, but those, like her living mind, were well protected and had yet to be discovered. There was some horror there, of that he was certain, but she could not or would not tell of it.

The Ohmefrai he was chewing had long since yielded its store of sap. He spat the fibrous, tough remains from his mouth. The juice he had swallowed would combine with special enzymes from an organ in his abdomen to produce a fermented liquid, a process that would take a while to complete.

He recalled discovering Great Father's Memory. In the beginning it was unclear, distorted, and he had trouble Seeing, but as he continued to delve and peel away layers of antiquity, it became clearer, finally shining with Rightness and a terrible beauty that was both frightening and compelling. He spoke of it with Eldest Mother, who did not believe the accounting of the Endilinti to be in truth a fortelling of real events. She told him as much, but seemed to regard his fascination with a wry and resigned tolerance.

The Salortog returned, once again dwelling in their old dens. A little later others appeared, going about in strange flying machines, deep into the river valley and into hidden places. Mother warned the Tribe it would be best to stay away, but otherwise had little to say about their reappearance in their world, although she was troubled, and cautioned him against approaching the Salortog places. He followed her edict for a time, but found himself watching them more often, at first from afar, but lately he had gone closer, occasionally taking a few curious members with him, but more often by himself.

Third Son could feel the minds of Salortog, weak, grievously unshielded, alone. Most were bland, a few seemed more disciplined and purposeful than others, some were dark like a blight had touched their being, leaving an indelible mark. The Salortog were a danger, a threat in ways he did not understand. He made no effort to communicate with them other than reading their superficial life light. He was not arrogant, but they were blind to each other and to his own Essence. A stone would have as much awareness.

Then, far away, he touched the mind of Doktor, shining with an Essence that could only be Endilinti. Once he arrived on the world, Third Son realized Doktor was oddly unaware of his destiny. Inside, he was primarily Healer, considering that title to be of greatest worth, which admittedly had turned out well for Fledgling. And though his spirit blazed, the flame was often hidden by Doktor himself as he struggled with doubt, sometimes fear, and a peculiar loathing that seemed directed only inward. Third Son did not understand the darkness, but the brightness could not be denied. He tried to relay his sense of hope and reverence. He was not sure how much Doktor understood, but apparently he was not happy being thought of as a savior, and twice denied being such through their thin and wobbly layer of communication.

Eldest Mother discounted the possibility of Doktor being Endilinti from the beginning with a certainty that at first had seemed unconsidered. Following the meeting in the wood near the Salortog den,Third Son found his own conviction, if not wavering, at least less firmly entrenched. Doktor's mate wanted a song, and he had complied with a simple version of Great Father's story, sang as he might to a nestling. He did not think the female comprehended, despite her reaching out in a feeble attempt to contact his mind, but Doktor was distressed and somehow shamed. Should Endilinti be ashamed of his own story? Assuming Doktor was Endilinti, he was still Salorotg, even if the thing existed at all.

That line of thought was not pleasant. Third Son shook vigorously, surfacing from his introspective mental state. He was surprised to find the afternoon was growing old. The wind had shifted and lessened amid steadily increasing cloud cover. He snuffed deeply, the promise of frozen precipitation hung in the air, stinging his nostrils. The impending change in weather was accompanied by an undefined but growing sense of unease.

He hopped to the ground, deciding to forgo any attempt at Vision and head back to the Den instead. He drank deeply from the little pool of water, then stretched before launching himself into the darkening sky, flying home ahead of the approaching snow, but not able to outfly his own uncomfortable cloud of doubt and anxiety.


End file.
